Page 46 of Into Pitch

“There is distance! There’s a whole fucking world of distance and you ensured that when you crossed every possible line.” I shove back.

He sighs and I’m painfully aware of how close we are now that we’ve closed in on each other. His presence fills the space like gravity and I can’t help but bend toward it. My body betrays me, heat stirring low and traitorous, a pull that has nothing to do with logic or safety.

I hate it.

I hate that some part of me wants to reach for the bat behind the bar and swing, and the other wants me to grab his coat and obliterate the tension once and for all.

“You don’t get to decide what this is. You don’t get to decide me,” I rasp, because I know where this is going.

His eyes darken as he steps into me. “I already have.”

My hand flies out and shoves his chest hard enough that he has to step back to keep his balance, and the contact sends a shock up my arm, heat flaring where my palms met him.

“Get out. Get the fuck out before I—”

“Before you what?” He hums, pushing back into me immediately, reclaiming the space I took.

“Hit me?” He purrs.

My gaze flick back to the bat I know is within reach and his laugh yanks my attention back to him.

“There it is—those teeth you pretend not to have.” He growls.

“Don’t talk to me like you know me.”

“But I do,” he objects. “I know you don’t swing unless you mean it. I know you’re angry because you’re hurt, not because I’m actually Plague. And I know that if you wanted me gone, you’d already be reaching for the bat instead of standing here arguing with me.”

“Shut up,” I whisper.

He doesn’t.

“You want control back and you want to believe you were tricked instead of choosing to step into something dangerous because part of you wants it.”

I shove him again, harder this time and the bastard barely moves.

“Stop dissecting me. You don’t get to do that anymore.” I choke.

“And you are still so very close, little fox.” He whispers and ducks nearer. So close that I can feel the warmth of his breath across my cheeks and the clean, dark scent of his aftershave. My hands curl into fists at my side, nails biting into my palms.

“I should hate you,” I breathe.

“But you don’t.”

“I should be terrified.”

“You’re not.”

My breath stutters, trying to find logic. “I should—”

“You want me,” he finishes, voice dropping.

I surge forward and slam both hands into his chest, shoving him back until he collides with the edge of the bar. The bottles rattle behind him, glass chiming in protest.

“Don’t you dare say that like it’s something to be smug about.” I snarl in warning.

He looks down at me now, truly looks, eyes burning with something dangerous. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My body is a war zone of rage and desire, both clawing at each other and neither willing to give ground. My heart pounds so hard it hurts and my skin feels too tight and aware.