Page 74 of Into Pitch

“They’re looking for me,” I decide to start what might just be another fight.

“Sounds to be the truth,” he decides not to fight back, not so much as looking up to me.

That does it.

I shove up off the cheap little couch so hard it screeches against the hardwood. “You don’t get to say that like it’s the fucking weather, Alex.”

Now he looks up, nice and slow. And the bastard turns the page of his book, which makes for an appropriately strange action.

“You act as if it is odd that Imogen might have filed a missing person’s report, or at least made enough stink to have it brought to the TV. You disappeared. It’s not rocket science to conclude that people might be interested in it. Therefore it doesn’t shock or excite me.” He states plainly.

“Christ, you could at least pretend like it does,” I rasp.

“It would be pointless,” he snorts.

The cabin feels smaller now, like the walls are closing in around me. Like the news has pulled the outside world up to the windows and pressed its face to the cool glass. Yet another entirely fucked up reminder.

“They’re showing Imogen,” I choke and gesture to where my best friend’s face is on the TV. “Do you know that? She’s probably losing her fucking mind.”

He closes the book at last and sets its aside. Finally giving me his full attention, or appearing to.

“I’m well aware, as I stated.”

“Then just… let me go. Before this gets any worse.” I breathe out.

He pushes up out of his chair and the change in the air around us is immediate. Not threatening—not overtly—but absolute. Like gravity reasserts itself and claims him the focal point of it all.

“No.”

The word lands heavy and final.

“You can’t keep me here,” I whisper as he closes the distance between us. My heart kicking into my chest. “This isn’t sustainable.”

“I don’t require it to be,” he murmurs as his hands slide to my face. So large in comparison that they frame my jaw as his fingers slide into my hair, effectively holding me captive.

“That’s not an answer, Alex.” I rasp as he tilts my head back, taking control of not only the conversation but me. “They’ll connect this eventually. You were my therapist and I vanished right after I stopped showing up.”

His thumbs smoothes across my cheekbones and I swallow thickly as the air pulls taut between us. A distraction, I think. I’m not entirely sure, but it’s working.

“They won’t,” he murmurs calmly.

“You’re not invisible, Alex.” I whisper as his face drops nearer to mine. His lips a breath from my own as I feel each of his words against my mouth.

“No,” he agrees. “But I am careful.”

“You think this won’t blow back on you? You think cops won’t start knocking and asking questions?” I whisper as his lips brush along the edge of my own.

“They can ask, but I won’t answer.” His breath warm against my skin, my cheeks flushing as his fingers tighten.

“You don’t get to control everything.”

I feel his mouth quirk, his eyes holding mine despite his movement in front of me as he slowly walks me backward. My back connects with the wall and my hand shoots out to grip his shirt, to push him away or pull him closer—I’m not sure anymore.

I hate what he does to my head, but a sick part of me also relishes it. This feeling of being tossed into a wind tunnel and not knowing which direction is up or down, left or right.

“I don’t need to control everything,” he says quietly. “Just you.”

The words curl around my spine and I gasp softly as his knee slides between my thighs. Just enough pressure to push my mind away from the fears, but keep it locked tight on him.