16. Chapter 16
I don’t realize how tight I’ve been since the meeting with the other survivor days ago until I’m sitting down and my body refuses to relax.
My knee bouncing as I face off with a man I also have a budding attraction for, which helps nothing.
I reach out, my hand catching my knee for it, only to start again seconds later.
Alex notices it immediately, he always does.
“You can sit or stand, your choice. But you look tense.” He mutters.
“No shit?” I deadpan and his brow arches.
I blow out a breath and amend my answer. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. Want to tell me what happened?” He probes, tone contained.
The seal cracks and I feel as if the restless energy that’s lived in my chest finally vibrates out in words.
“I met someone,” I blurt.
His brows blow up, as if that surprises him. “Alright.”
Then I word vomit the whole story of Pitch and how I had gone in search of someone who had gone as well. I tell him about Plague, minus a few details of course. The entire time he just watches me with that infuriatingly unreadable expression he always has fixed so permanently on his face.
“We met at the bar, and his experience was nothing like mine.” I gush.
“How so?” He questions.
I scrub a hand down my face, because here we go. “He was tortured and held in the mirror room for hours while Plague picked him apart. He said it was like therapy outside of the helping part, of course.”
Something flickers across Alex’s face. It’s fast, and gone before I can register it. If I wasn’t already keyed up, I might’ve missed it entirely.
“Go on,” he murmurs.
“Then there’s me. And let’s be honest—I did not have the same experience. I fucked him, or rather he fucked me.”
Everything goes very quiet and I brace myself for judgement.
Alex expression doesn’t so much as waver, his voice even. “How did that make you feel?”
I’m getting really tired of that fucking follow up question.
“Confused? I don’t know. Embarrassed. Ashamed, a little. The guy I talked to looked at me like I was disgusting when I told him. And frankly, I can’t say I blame him. This guy is torturing and murdering people, and meanwhile I’m dropping my panties and just giving it a go.” I spit back.
“You’re not,” Alex says immediately.
“I’m not what?” I huff.
“There’s nothing shameful about what you did. You were responding to a situation with the tools and knowledge you had at the time. That doesn’t make you weak or complicit to what he did before to others.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way, but—
“Why me then? Why did he treat me differently?” I ask as if he could possibly know the answer.
“Why do you think?” His tone turning curious.
“I don’t know. Maybe I gave him what he wanted and it was easy? It was…”
“You gave him engagement,” he supplies.
“It sounds like.” He tacks on.
I let myself stew on those words for a moment, drawing lines to pieces I didn’t realize were right there in my skull.
“I didn’t fight it, but… I didn’t shut down either like the other guy said he did. I leaned all the way in and maybe that’s the difference?” I conclude.
“Yes, you met him where he was.” Alex agrees.
“And?” I prompt.
“And people like that don’t respond to resistance the way you’d expect,” he explains. “They respond to participation.”
Something in his tone sharpens, like he’s choosing his words carefully.
“He didn’t torture you because you didn’t need to be broken. You were already open.” He continues. I don’t know how that makes any sense, but he seems to think it does.
“That doesn’t make you responsible for his actions, but it does explain the difference if you need to know it.” He adds.
I nod slowly, absorbing that.
“So it isn’t always about the sex for him, obviously. The other guy said he took pleasure in watching him falling apart—that he could tell.” I murmur, deep in my own thoughts.
“That kind of person often does, but enjoyment doesn’t always come from sexual gratification or pain.” He replies smoothly.
I glance up to him. “What do you mean?”
“Sometimes it comes from influence,” he states simply, leaning forward across his knees and clasping his hands. “From seeing how deeply you can affect someone.”
Which makes complete sense.
“I keep thinking about something the guy said Plague said to him,” I admit. “That pain is just data, if you know how to read it.”
Alex’s head cocks. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”
Too interesting. I miss it in the moment, miss the way his fingers curl slightly against the arm of his chair. Miss the fractional pause before he continues, because I’m too busy sorting through the mess.
“He framed it like he was studying us. Like we were just… puzzles.” I murmur.
“And how did that make you feel in the moment?” Alex probes softly.
“Seen,” I say without thinking.
The words hang between us, and Alex doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by that reply.
“Being seen can feel intoxicating, especially when you’ve spent a lifetime being overlooked.” He agrees.
“I just… keep wondering how close I came to something going really wrong. If I’d said the wrong thing or reacted differently.”
“You’re alive, that’s what matters.” Alex counters and my brows furrow.
“But people have clearly died by Plague’s hand. Have been tortured.”
“There are places in the world where danger is curated. Where consent is complicated. Pitch clearly seems to be one of them.” He completely glosses over my statement. Which isn’t something he does often so it causes me pause.
“So, what? We’re just supposed to ignore that people like Plague exist out there. Completely unhinged?”
Alex’s mouth curves slightly, not a smile but something colder. “Unhinged implies lack of structure. From what you described, he’s highly structured.”
Why is this bastard smiling?
“What does that statement have to do with anything?” I counter, brows now permanently creased.
“It doesn’t, I suppose.” He shrugs and leans back into his seat.
I study him as I try to figure out how to take all of this or reply. How to form a sentence that doesn’t leave me more confused than before. Because why the hell isn’t he just as freaked out? Doesn’t he have an obligation to report something like murder?
“What do I do with that?”
“For now?” Alex hums, tapping his finger off his knee. “You sit with it. You don’t judge yourself, and you keep coming back.”
I open my mouth, but he cuts me off. “You’re not broken, Sadie. You’re adaptive, and adaptability can look dangerous when it’s misunderstood. To me, it seems like you learned something about yourself at Pitch.”
“I learned I was attracted to psychopaths,” I deadpan.
He snorts. “Or you’re attracted to intensity and focus. To being chosen.”
I shift uncomfortably and he pushes on. “That doesn’t mean you want to be harmed or that you deserve harm. I would like to add that.”
Oh, because that makes it so much better.
“Next week we’ll talk about boundaries. Where yours were crossed and where you chose to step forward.” He charges forward, bulldozing right past Pitch as if it were an easy conversational topic that didn’t deserve to be dissected.
“Okay,” I mumble.
He stands, signaling the end of our session per usual, and I rise slowly. Head still buzzing as I reach for the jacket I had yanked off when I first strolled in with a chip on my shoulder. One that has gotten smaller, but still rests there heavily.