Page 39 of Into Pitch

“What did he do to you? What was your experience?”

Heat creeps up my neck. I was foolishly hoping we could avoid that. I hadn’t come here thinking about how different my truth would sound next to his.

“I—” I start, then stop.

He watches me closely, and something like disgust flickers across his face. “No, you didn’t…”

I force myself to meet his gaze. “I slept with him.”

The words hang there, ugly and exposed. But he had told me his truth, and he was at least owed mine in return. No matter how badly I didn’t want to give it.

He physically recoils like I’ve slapped him. “You what?”

“I didn’t know what he was capable of,” I rush to fix this. “I thought—”

“You thought what? That you were special?” He snaps, pushing back from the table. The shame hits hard and fast, my cheeks burning.

“I didn’t mean—”

“That’s sick. You’re fucking sick.” He seethes and I swallow hard.

“I didn’t know,” I repeat, voice barely above a whisper.

He shakes his head, repulsion etched into every line of his face. “You should’ve run.”

Then he turns and walks out, leaving his glass and my pride shattered on the table. I sit there for a long time after he’s gone, staring at nothing.

My mind races, replaying everything he had said. The calm cruelty and the methodical dismantling. The way Plague chose his victims and seemingly spared me.

Why?

Fuck, I just need to know why.

I don’t realize how tight I’ve been since the meeting with the other survivor days ago until I’m sitting down and my body refuses to relax. My knee bouncing as I face off with a man I also have a budding attraction for, which helps nothing. I reach out, my hand catching my knee for it, only to start again seconds later.

Alex notices it immediately, he always does.

“You can sit or stand, your choice. But you look tense.” He mutters.

“No shit?” I deadpan and his brow arches.

I blow out a breath and amend my answer. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Want to tell me what happened?” He probes, tone contained.

The seal cracks and I feel as if the restless energy that’s lived in my chest finally vibrates out in words.

“I met someone,” I blurt.

His brows blow up, as if that surprises him. “Alright.”

Then I word vomit the whole story of Pitch and how I had gone in search of someone who had gone as well. I tell him about Plague, minus a few details of course. The entire time he just watches me with that infuriatingly unreadable expression he always has fixed so permanently on his face.

“We met at the bar, and his experience was nothing like mine.” I gush.

“How so?” He questions.

I scrub a hand down my face, because here we go. “He was tortured and held in the mirror room for hours while Plague picked him apart. He said it was like therapy outside of the helping part, of course.”