Page 85 of Into Pitch

“Yes, I’m certain.” He smirks back.

I roll my eyes and soon we are plating the fish, sitting down at the small table across from each other. The light outside has softened, late afternoon slipping toward evening where shadows crawl from the trees to greet everything it would never normally touch under the sun’s protection.

The fish is good, and I mean really good. I groan softly as I cut into the tender meat before forking up the rice Alexander had whipped up for one of the sides.

“Acceptable?” He muses, studying me.

“Annoyingly so. It’s sort of unfair that you’re a decent cook too.” I mutter into the napkin I use to cover my mouth while chewing.

“How so?” He smirks.

“Because then I have to reconcile the fact that you’re a multifaceted murderer.” I mutter.

He snorts into his wine and shakes his head. “That was never in question.”

“For me, it was,” I counter.

He rolls his eyes, unbothered by my subtle jab. So, I decide to send another one his way just for the hell of it. Why? I don’t fucking now. Maybe to make up for the too good of time we’ve had today.

“You know I’m not under any illusion that this changes who you are.”

He sighs, looking up to me from his plate, but I keep going.

“I don’t think you’re secretly good or misunderstood. Or one breakthrough away from whatever version of you people like better.”

I wait for his reply, feeling a little self-satisfied up until the moment he smirks. I blink at that.

“Good.”

“Good?” I frown.

“Good.” He reiterates.

My brows furrow. “Well, if it’s good, then—then I think you’re dangerously calculated and capable of things I don’t want to think about too hard.”

He doesn’t bother to interrupt.

“And somehow, I don’t know if that’s a dealbreaker anymore. And that really fucks with my head, about as much as you did in that mirrored room and every moment after.”

Boy, that is not where I thought that barb was going.

The silence that follows my admission is heavy. My jaw tightening at the way the truth had slipped past my teeth without my express permission. It’s a real pain in the ass when the filter between the brain and tongue forgets to do its job and filter.

“You’re not obligated to be comfortable with it,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

“You’re allowed to leave,” he adds.

I scoff. “You say that like it’s true. I seem to distinctly remember you chasing me down.”

“It is true,” he sits his fork down. “The real question is whether you want to.”

I cluck my tongue against the roof of my mouth, considering that before I open my mouth. Because he does seem to have a habit of beating me at my own game. Frequently.

I choose to go with ignoring the topic of me leaving, because I don’t particularly like the answer that lives inside my head at the thought of it.

“I don’t think you can change.”