Page 58 of Into Pitch

I bark out a laugh that tears at my throat. “Fuck you, Alex!”

That ought to show him.

I run harder, until my calves scream and my lungs burn. Twigs snapping underfoot as I barrel along. Cursing when the ground suddenly slopes downward, and I nearly eat dirt, only just catching myself on a tree trunk. I shove off its strong form without stopping, especially when I hear a branch crack behind me. I can almost bet his freakishly long legs are faring far better than my own in covering distance.

I almost would place money on him letting me run.

The thought sends a fresh surge of adrenaline through me, equal parts wrath and exhilaration. I cut sharply left, then right, doubling back on instinct, trying to lose him in the underbrush. I hear his breathing though, closer now.

Too close.

“Little fox,” he taunts, and there’s something dangerous threaded into those words. Not anger or even warning, but enjoyment.

I burst through a cluster of low branches into a small clearing, sunlight blinding me for a second—and that’s all it takes.

A hand clamps around my wrist and I scream, twisting around and turning feral as I lash out with my free arm. I connect with something solid—his shoulder—and the impact jars me to the bone. He grunts, but doesn’t release me. Instead our momentum carries us both forward.

I stumble and he adjusts, my back swinging around to connect hard enough with a tree that it knocks the air from me.

“Let me go!” I snarl, struggling.

“Stop,” he hisses.

I don’t.

I fight like hell.

I buck and kick and claw like an animal caught in a trap, my heel slamming into his shin while my hands scrabble for purchase. My heart hammering so hard it feels like it might tear from my chest.

And the bastard absorbs it all. Every frantic movement and wild strike.

He shifts again, one stupidly smooth motion that changes his grip as his weight pins me. His fingers locking around my wrists and slapping them to the tree trunk above my head, caging me.

I’m seething, heat curling through me as his body lines up with my own.

His breath ghosts over my cheek, abhorrently steady despite the chase. I can feel his pulse where he grips my wrists, and it’s maddeningly calm. The man is a freak of nature and I will never understand it.

“Caught you,” he murmurs.

My chest heaves. “You drugged me!”

“Yes.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“I see you noticed that.”

“I will kill you.”

A smile blooms on his mouth, and it is a devastating thing. Christ, he’s good looking.

“You can try.”

I glare up at him, breathing ragged. “Oh, I will.”

His forehead dips closer, just short of touching mine. “I look forward to finding out what method you attempt to use.”

“You’re psychotic,” I huff—trying like hell to recover my breath. If I ever make it out of this, I might actually stick to my New Year’s resolution of working out.