Page 61 of Into Pitch

“You removed my ability to consent to being here.”

He sets his mug down slowly. “No.”

I huff, because he can’t be serious? “Excuse me?”

“You consented the moment you didn’t call the police when you figured out I was Plague. You consented the moment you ran in the forest, inviting me to chase instead of freezing.”

I’m clearly not the one who is in need of therapy. He’s lost his fucking mind—again. I’m not sure if he’s going to be able to dig deep enough inside of himself to find it now either. It’s hopped a ship to Europe, gotten married, and left my ass here to deal with the divorce and step kids I didn’t ask for from its previous marriage.

“That’s not how consent works, asshole.” I hiss out.

“No,” he agrees smoothly. “That’s how you work though.”

I scoff, convinced being perplexed is going to become a permanent state of being, and stare at him. Trying to work out why he acts as if this is just another clinical edge he has to add to the cube he is already building of me.

“You don’t get to narrate my reactions like that.” I sputter out. Not sure what that even means, but it sounded good in my head.

“Then correct me and tell me what you felt.” He retorts without hesitation.

That cracks further emotion in my chest. Not the kind I’m sure he’s hoping for, but anger surges hot and fast. “I felt furious and violated. I felt—”

“Alive?” He supplies.

My jaw snaps shut hard enough my teeth clack, my throat tightening.

“Say it,” he presses, stepping forward into my space. His head cocking in a way I once saw a cheetah do on National Geographic right before it ripped the throat out of the gazelle. “Say you didn’t feel it.”

I turn away, simply because looking into the depth of his eyes is jarring enough without him yanking threads of me open to see. “You don’t get to weaponize my responses.”

“And you don’t get to pretend you don’t have them. That’s the pattern, Sadie.” He explains as he turns to wash his cup in the sink. “You minimize and intellectualize. You survive and then act like survival was accidental.”

My eyes snap back to him. I see we’ve glazed right past the fact he kidnapped and drugged me and somehow turned the gun right back on me.

“Careful,” I hiss low.

“Or what?” He challenges softly, his back still turned to me.

“Or I’ll start pulling you apart the way you like to do other people.”

That gets his attention. I watch warily as he sits the mug down into the sink, rests his hands on the copper edge, and turns to look at me curiously.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

Well, don’t mind if I do.

“You’re not doing this because you care about my healing.” I start. “You’re doing this because you don’t like not being in control. And when I’m home in my bus or in my life, you don’t have the control you think you need.”

He considers that. “Partially.”

“And because I did something you didn’t expect in Pitch. Which is insane by the way; basing your parameters of choice upon.” I suck in air and continue. “You chose me because I didn’t give the typical response to your freaky little quiz. So, for whatever reason, you’ve hyper-focused and turned me into something that is… other. When I am the same as every other dick who’s walked into your office, just a different flavor of fucked up.”

Silence stretches between us for a long moment as he lets those words soak in.

“First off, insane is a nasty label and we aren’t going to use it.” He states. “Second, I prefer to think of it as projection rather than hyper focus.” An undercurrent of amusement entering his tone that smacks every pissed off red button in my head.

“You’re deflecting,” I shoot back blindly.

His mouth curves. “You’re only angry now because you enjoyed last night.”