Kill Switch by Penelope Douglas

“No,” he growled in a loud whisper. “You do what you’re
told.”
I jammed down on his foot, accelerating the car a little
more.
“Left or right?” I asked, my nose brushing his. “Tell me.”
He panted, digging his fingers into my skin through my
sweatshirt.
“Three,” I threatened, counting down. “Two…”
“Okay, okay, okay,” he said. “Wait. Just wait.”
I leaned my forehead into his. “One.”
“Okay, three o’clock! Now!” he hissed.
I faced forward, rotated the wheel right, both of us
slamming into the door as the car sprung over the dips and
uneven earth on the new gravel road.
“No, four!” he shouted, realizing three wasn’t enough.
“Four o’clock! Shit!”
I turned it more, but we knew it was a lost cause. I lost the
wheel as the car skidded and spun out, and my body coiled up
on reflex to protect itself. His arms went around me, covering
my head, and I screamed as the car tipped onto one side,
balancing for a moment and threatening to flip over, but then
fell back onto all four tires again.
The car stilled, the engine died, and I stayed like that,
cradled in his lap, taking a mental inventory of my body.
Other than banging my knee on the steering wheel when I
brought it up, and an ache in my shoulder from hitting the car
door, I was fine. I popped my head up, bringing my hands to
his face.
“Did I kill you?” I asked.
But he didn’t laugh or say anything for a moment. Just
breathed.
“My heart…” he said. “Shit.”