❝She kills without second thought.❞
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Micajah's PoV:
"Ah!" I shout out in pain, unable to hold it in any longer. I clutch my hand to my injured leg and cry out desperately when another blow is landed to my other leg. Tears of pain gather in the cor...
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Chapter 28 - "'The' Date." |Part I|
"Where should I drive?" Seneca asks, turning to me with an excited grin, once we're all buckled up and ready to go.
"Um." My cheeks heat up in embarrassment because I wanted it to be a surprise, and now, the fact that I don't know how to drive—despite being eighteen freaking years old—has forced me in a situation to disclose that detail.
"How about I give the directions?" I look at her hopefully, and she considers it for a second in silence. She then nods in agreement, and I take solace in the fact that at least a semblance of surprise will be remaining. She might not know the human city that well, to guess where we're going to.
A guy can hope.
"Okay..." She sighs and pulls the car into drive, following my instructions.
☘ ☘ ☘
"Where are we going?" Seneca repeats the question for what seems like the millionth time, being surprisingly persistent and anxious about it.
It's been twenty minutes and we're nearing our destination.
A turn or so is remaining.
"You'll know." I smile, and turn back to the front, looking around the busy main road.
There's the sign.
"Turn on that right." I instruct, gesturing to the road with my hand.
"Pfft." She mock-glares at me and lets her eyes slide back to the road, nodding.
Here we are.
"The streets are too crowded from now on to drive. Park it in that lot." I point to the few empty white squares painted on the side of the road, and she rolls her eyes in dismay, taking and grumbling as she follows my words.
It feels good to be the one to order her for a change.
Though, I would never admit that out loud.
What? You thought I have a death wish?
Seneca parks the car with the efficiency of a person who's been driving this thing all their life, not struggling the slightest to turn the car, to let it idle in the square perpendicular to the road.
I should really learn to drive.
"Done." Seneca turns the car off and turns to me, looking at me expectantly as she idly taps her fingers against the steering wheel.
Even that simple action draws my attention, because she never moves when it's not necessary, and the way she remains almost too still at times, with that deep look in her eyes make her almost too unattainable, too unreal, and way beyond us little mortals.
