Page 60 of Into Pitch

I wake up furious.

Not groggy or confused, but furious in a way that rakes its claws beneath my skin. Sharp enough that I lie there for a full five seconds staring at the wooden ceiling before I even try to move.

It’s the third time I’ve been foolish enough to let him crawl off into my pants.

My jaw tightens and I roll onto my side, dragging the thin blanket with me and up over my shoulder. As if it can possibly shield me from the stupidity of my actions that I seem hell bent on repeating. Often.

Sucking in a breath, the cabin smells like coffee and him, and that alone is enough to spike my irritation another notch.

My bed is empty of course, outside of the lump my own body has made. Not that I expected him to be here. I haven’t quite puzzled Alexander out yet, but I have a feeling he’s not the snuggle and sleep in type.

Not that I care what type he is.

Sitting up, I scrub my hands down my face and glare to the room around me. My muscles ache in that deep, familiar way that only comes after exertion and adrenaline, and it does absolutely nothing to improve my mood. All it does is stand as physical proof of how thoroughly I failed to keep my damn resolve intact.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, tugging on what remains of the clothes I had tossed onto the bedroom floor last night after our forest romp. I ignore the scent of soil and sweat on them, hoping that Alexander might find an aversion to it since it’s become apparent my messy mind wasn’t enough to steer him clear.

By the time I force myself into the main room of the cabin, I’m already brimming for a fight.

Alex is at the small kitchen tucked into the corner, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and moving with irritating ease as he pours coffee into two mismatched mugs like this is a perfectly normal morning and not the aftermath of a felony.

It is a felony, I remind the inner slut that has it down bad for him. She’s in need of a solid shake and a reintroduction to all the red flags that we thought we knew how to avoid.

“Morning,” he purrs calmly. His eyes flicking up to me over the rim of his coffee cup as he turns to lean back into the counter. My own attention drops to the relaxed way he props one ankle over the other and grips the counter at his side.

“Don’t ‘morning’ me,” I snipe.

“Fine, I won’t ‘morning’ you.” He shrugs.

I scoff and stalk past him, snatching one of the mugs off the counter he’s set out for me without asking. “You’re insufferable.”

“Am I, though?”

“I would say kidnapping puts you in the realm of that list.”

He hums and watches me as I take a long sip of the coffee to steady the nerves that are wanting to shake through my fingers despite my bravado. It’s strong and exactly how I take it. An accumulative mark against him, I decide. I don’t even want to know how he knows how I like my coffee or if he’s just so good at guessing my habits that he’s got me all figured out by now.

I hate the way he watches me. It’s not smug or even hungry, but sharp and assessing. The kind that says that he can somehow diagnose something wrong with me from the mere way I sip from a cup. If it weren’t scalding hot I might be a little more childish and chug it. I’m debating on the merits of doing it when I find another—more satisfying—way to poke the bear.

“So,” I start, leaning back against the counter to mimic his posture. “What’s the plan now? You keep me here until I develop Stockholm syndrome or—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in smoothly.

“Don’t what?” I snort.

“Use lazy psychology. You’re better than that.”

My eyes narrow at the hit. “Am I? Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one playing goddamn therapist while knowingly committing a massive crime. You can’t possibly think this is going to end well.”

He shrugs, “crimes are contextual.”

“Contextual?” I shriek and his brow arches. “You abducted me!”

“Yes.”

“You drugged me,” I tack on just in case he’s forgotten that part.

“I am aware.”