Page 76 of Into Pitch

He smirks, “at least ruined we’ll find a way to be whole.”

He tugs away from me, taking all that heat of this moment and leaving me a mess against the wall. With conflicting thoughts and desires. He doesn’t say a single word more as he returns to his chair and pulls out his book.

The television keeps talking behind us. My life scrolling past like a story that no longer belongs to me.

And Alex seems as if he’s already written the ending of it all.

I can’t just stand here and stare at him after that. So I settle on telling him that I need to walk. I don’t bother asking, because asking would give him something to deny.

He doesn’t break eye contact with the pages in his hand and nods me off. “Don’t go far.”

As if I could.

The moment I’m outside and off the porch, the forest air hits me clean and sharp. The trees swallowing me whole as I navigate deeper, ground crunching beneath the boots I had hastily yanked on, on my way out the door.

The sound is too loud in the quiet, and my thoughts sprint ahead of my body like they’re trying to outrun something feral snapping at my heels.

My face is on the news, Imogen’s crying on TV, and meanwhile I’m getting freaky with my kidnapper in the woods. I’ve officially become a basket-case.

I groan into the silence around me, ignoring the branches as they scrape at my arms or the cold air that bites at my lungs. The silver of my bracelet flashes at my wrist, a reminder of the night that has become the axis for everything else.

So, instead of letting my mind wonder back to Imogen and the news again, I do something far more self-deprecating. I turn my thoughts inward to myself.

I shouldn’t want Alexander.

I should be planning my escape right now. Screaming and plotting while his guard is down and he doesn’t expect me to do something. Instead, my mind keeps circling back to the same sick truth…

I don’t want him to be done with me.

The realization disgusts me.

Cursing, I kick a rock near my foot hard enough pain blooms up my shin, grounding me to the reality I’ve found myself in. Even if it doesn’t feel real.

“Get it together,” I mutter to myself and really no one at all. Unless the trees start to talk back, and that’s a whole other problem.

I’m still mentally hyping myself up about an escape plan I may or may not ever enact when I find something particularly interesting.

Half-buried near the edge of the path, rusted but solid, rests a crowbar.

I stop, pursing my lips as I stare at it like it might just sprout a mouth and tell me what’s spiraling through my mind next is a bad idea. A horrible idea, but an idea none-the-less.

Bending low, I yank away the vines trying to lay claim to it and take custody of it myself. It’s heavier than I expect, but solid and well balanced. Familiar in the way tools are when you’ve had to learn how to defend yourself young. My grip adjusts automatically, muscle memory kicking in.

And I think of Imogen.

Of her face on the news segment and how she might be pacing her apartment or shop right now worried sick. No doubt asking herself if I’m alive or already buried somewhere cold and anonymous. I also think of how Alexander just manipulated me to get away from me pushing him on our new favorite topic.

My jaw locks and I turn right back around, following the way I came.

The cabin comes into view through the trees, the supposedly warm structure dark against the gray sky. Smoke curls from the chimney, like nothing in the world has gone wrong. As if it’s not hosting a psychopath and his kidnapped—I don’t even know what to call myself.

My pulse finds its rhythm in my chest and ears, but I don’t slow down or allow myself time to hesitate on my approach. The door creaks when I shove it open, and he’s there, but not exactly where I left him.

Now he stands near the table, his sleeves rolled up, and watching me like he felt the shift before I ever crossed the threshold.

His eyes drop to the crowbar before slowly crawling back up. Never leaving me as I carefully cross the space between us. Something sharpens in his expression. It’s not fear, but interest.

I swing.