Page 70 of Into Pitch

“You don’t really want to know the answer to that, you just want something else to be angry about.” He snorts.

“Don’t hedge me, Alexander. Spit it out.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, you who knows everything can’t remember how many times he’s stuck his dick in something?” I scoff. “Doubtful.”

“Okay,” he murmurs leaning forward. “I do know, but you don’t need to. We can leave it at that, and move on.”

“We can make it fair?” I suggest, egging him on despite myself. “I’ll tell you all the men I’ve let—”

“The answer is no, so how about we move on?” He bites.

“And if I don’t feel like moving on?”

“This would be one of the few instances that I don’t care what you want.” He jabs right back. “Move. On.”

I hurl myself back in my chair, crossing my arms to my chest. “Fine. Do you regret any of it?”

“No.”

No hesitation. No caveat.

“Do you ever think about stopping?”

“No.”

At least he’s honest.

“Look,” he murmurs and leans forward to mirror the position I had only moments before. “I don’t want you constructing a version of me that isn’t accurate.”

“What version of you is accurate then, Alexander?” I ask dryly.

“The one that doesn’t pretend this is a phase or a mistake. Or something that can be undone because you ask questions and search for reasons to get pissed off at me.”

“You’re doing a very fine job at being evasive, Alex, and you know it.” I hiss out.

He takes a deep breath, as if he’s the one that needs to stabilize himself, and taps his fingers to the table once.

“Any other questions about Pitch that don’t revolve around who I have fucked?”

God, I hate hearing that more than I’ll admit. I hate the little gremlin of jealousy that pokes her head up and bears her teeth at the thought. Like she’s already lifted her leg and pissed all over him to mark her territory.

I need therapy, just… not with this man as my therapist.

“So we’ve established that you’ve fucked and tortured, what about killing?” I already know the answer, but I throw it out there regardless. Curious to see if this will be just another conversation he avoids.

He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes.”

I do.

“H-how many?” I dare to whisper.

“Enough that counting would be sentimental,” he exhales. I watch as he pushes off the table and back into his seat, mirroring my position once more.

Christ.

“At Pitch?”