Page 88 of Into Pitch

A flicker crosses his expression at that, it’s not guilt or shame, but… interest?

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” He questions softly.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing at all. That’s the problem!”

He sets the mug down and steps back toward me. Not that at the present moment I want him anywhere near me. “I told you I am handling something.”

“And I told you that was fucking vague,” I spit.

“I am aware.”

“Suspiciously vague,” I snark.

He doesn’t deny it, but watches me. Tracking my breathing and posture, and the exact moment this anger tinges into fear.

“And what if something happens? What if someone finds this place? What if I—” My voice catches despite itself. “What if you don’t come back?”

His expression softens as he steps nearer. “I will come back.”

“Oh, right. Because you’re so trustworthy.” I growl.

“You’re reacting,” he murmurs gently.

“Yeah, no shit,” I snipe. “I’m reacting to being abandoned in the middle of nowhere.”

He pauses at the word abandoned and he shakes his head. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m leaving you in a controlled environment that you know.”

“That is the same thing with fancier words!”

“No, it isn’t.” His tone goes steel-flat.

I cross my arms over my chest like it can hold me together. “So what, you’re leaving me a car? Keys? A map?”

His eyes don’t change, and it’s infuriating.

“There isn’t a car,” he mutters.

My stomach drops. “Alex, no. Don’t—”

“The nearest road that leads anywhere useful is twelve miles through forest,” he cuts me off. “You wouldn’t make it before dark without supplies you don’t have. Think of it as a break to sort your thoughts without me in your orbit.”

He steps even closer and I back one in return. “No, Alex, this is isolation. You know it. I fucking know it.”

“You’re splitting hairs,” He murmurs.

“I’m being accurate.”

I want to hit him with a crowbar and scream until his ears bleed. I want to do something that makes this panic stop crawling under my skin like a thousand busy ants. Every piece of me is buzzing with anxiety.

Instead of crawling out of my own body, I force myself to breathe to keep my focus.

I’ve survived worse rooms than this, I remind myself. Rooms that smelled like sweat and smoke and men who didn’t care if I cried. Rooms where the locks weren’t on doors but on wrists and choices.

Still, this one hits differently.

Because for the first time, the fear isn’t of what someone will do to me. It’s of what I’ll do to myself when I’m alone with the quiet.

“This feels like you’re testing me, Alex. And I fucking hate it.” I whisper, voice and throat tight.