ASHTON
Lucien's head snaps to the side on impact, the crack of knuckles against bone echoing louder than it should in the empty stretch of road. For a split second, everything goes still. Even the wind seems to pause, as if the world itself is waiting to see what happens next.
Then he stumbles just a half step back, one hand coming up too late to stop the blood already spilling from his nose. It trickles over his lips, dark and thick, and drips onto the gravel between us.
He straightens slowly and when he looks at me, there is no confusion in his eyes. No shock, only rage.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" His rough voice is edged with disbelief, his accent curling around the words like a blade.
My chest is heaving. Though my hand still aches from the punch, my fingers curl tight like they want to go again.
