Page 63 of Into Pitch

“And I sure as fuck don’t trust you.”

He smirks—actually smirks. “Probably wise.”

“Probably?” I scoff and gesture once more at the cabin. “Your track record is starting to take hits that it can’t come back from.”

“We’ll see,” he muses and meets my gaze evenly.

“I’m serious,” I deadpan.

“As am I.”

We stand there, locked in place, two predators circling the same fire. Neither of us willing to completely budge from the warmth it offers, nor eager to step right into it either to spite the other.

“I’m not sleeping with you again,” I mutter, because it’s the only ammunition I have left.

There is an abhorrent amount of silence that comes after that statement before his mouth ticks up once more. “You don’t sound entirely convinced of that.”

“Well… I mean it.” I grumble.

“I know you think you do.” He hums and leaves me in the kitchen to my thoughts.

Thoughts that feel a hell of a lot more tangled than they had when I first blew in here to confront him.

Her rejection is inconvenient.

Not unexpected, I had expected the resistance and anger. Even the attempts to reassert autonomy, but the shape it has all taken irritates me. Not because she refuses me, but because she refuses the logic of what I’ve done. As if it is a giant leap to want to give her an environment where everything is stripped away but her own mind and me.

This cabin is optimal for that.

It’s remote and quiet, predictable in a way that tells me there won’t be interruptions or audience. A place where variables can be controlled and outcomes observed without interference. I had selected it carefully, with her and her history in mind. With the way she responds to pressure and silence.

One would think she would appreciate that.

Instead, she wakes furious, barbed, sharp-tongued, and entirely unimpressed by what I consider an almost elegant solution.

I relax back into my seat at the small table after breakfast, one ankle crossed over my knee, watching her pace the living area like a caged animal. She moves with restless energy, fingers flexing and jaw tight. Her eyes darting to windows and doors as if she’s mapping exits and hoping maybe just one of them will be her way out of here.

I don’t believe for a second she is afraid.

Though, that is the problem.

Fear would have simplified things.

“This isn’t a vacation,” she snaps, getting right back to our previous argument even if time has lapsed. “You don’t get to rebrand kidnapping because there are trees.”

“I didn’t. You did,” I retort evenly.

“Oh, fuck off.”

I let the insult pass. She needs to discharge some of this, and anger is a tool when directed correctly. She just needs help pointing it in the right direction. I’ve already got plans for that, but we aren’t quite at that step yet.

“I understand that you don’t like being isolated.”

“Congratulations, Doctor. Gold Star.” Her laugh sharp in the confined space.

“I thought you would,” I admit.

Her foot catches on the wooden floors and her head cocks. “You thought?”