19. Chapter 19
I’m reaching for the lock when the door pushes inward on me. I stumble back, cold air sweeping in behind the shape that fills the doorway, my entire body locking up before I backpedal to place distance between us.
“So close,” Alex hums calmly, stepping inside and pulling the door shut behind him. The sound of the lock clicking into place lands like a gunshot in the empty bar.
Fuck, I had just came in to clean since I couldn’t paint or think after I had sent that message. I’m now realizing that maybe I should have locked my doors and prayed to god that the monster I suspected wasn’t the one I actually knew.
We’re alone.
The overhead lights are already dimmed, the place stripped down to its bones with chairs flipped onto tables and the bar top wiped clean from my nerves. The night outside presses against the poster covered windows, neon bleeding in from the signs of the other shops outside.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snarl—choosing violence.
He takes a few steps toward me, unhurried with his hands loose at his sides like he hasn’t just detonated my entire life by showing up here. Confirming a suspicion neither of us has brought attention to out loud yet, but I’m aware we are both thinking it. Loudly.
“You don’t get to walk in here,” I hiss, stalking toward him, rage pouring through me. “You don’t get to show up like nothing happened.”
“I never implied nothing happened,” he shrugs.
“You sat across from me and listened. You handled me—”
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“—and you had the nerve to let me talk about you.” I barrel on, voice shaking now. “You asked me about Plague and Pitch. About trauma you caused while pretending to help me process it!”
Why does the bastard look mildly amused?
“You figured it out,” he confirms without outright saying it.
I laugh, and the sound is even hysterical to my own ears. “Oh, you think?”
“You always would have, little fox. I was just waiting.”
“I’m not your fucking case study,” I spit, changing angles to hit him with.
“No, you’re not.” He agrees.
The way he says it so low and certain makes my pulse stumble. My hands fidget as I dare to take another step forward despite myself. “You’re sick. Do you have any idea how twisted it is to do what you did?”
“Yes.”
His answer is instant and unrepentant, it knocks the air from my lungs harder than any denial ever could.
“I didn’t come here to apologize,” he muses, gaze steady on mine. “I came because pretending there’s still distance between us is pointless.”
“There is distance! There’s a whole fucking world of distance and you ensured that when you crossed every possible line.” I shove back.
He sighs and I’m painfully aware of how close we are now that we’ve closed in on each other. His presence fills the space like gravity and I can’t help but bend toward it. My body betrays me, heat stirring low and traitorous, a pull that has nothing to do with logic or safety.
I hate it.
I hate that some part of me wants to reach for the bat behind the bar and swing, and the other wants me to grab his coat and obliterate the tension once and for all.
“You don’t get to decide what this is. You don’t get to decide me,” I rasp, because I know where this is going.
His eyes darken as he steps into me. “I already have.”
My hand flies out and shoves his chest hard enough that he has to step back to keep his balance, and the contact sends a shock up my arm, heat flaring where my palms met him.
“Get out. Get the fuck out before I—”
“Before you what?” He hums, pushing back into me immediately, reclaiming the space I took.
“Hit me?” He purrs.
My gaze flick back to the bat I know is within reach and his laugh yanks my attention back to him.
“There it is—those teeth you pretend not to have.” He growls.
“Don’t talk to me like you know me.”
“But I do,” he objects. “I know you don’t swing unless you mean it. I know you’re angry because you’re hurt, not because I’m actually Plague. And I know that if you wanted me gone, you’d already be reaching for the bat instead of standing here arguing with me.”
“Shut up,” I whisper.
He doesn’t.
“You want control back and you want to believe you were tricked instead of choosing to step into something dangerous because part of you wants it.”
I shove him again, harder this time and the bastard barely moves.
“Stop dissecting me. You don’t get to do that anymore.” I choke.
“And you are still so very close, little fox.” He whispers and ducks nearer. So close that I can feel the warmth of his breath across my cheeks and the clean, dark scent of his aftershave. My hands curl into fists at my side, nails biting into my palms.
“I should hate you,” I breathe.
“But you don’t.”
“I should be terrified.”
“You’re not.”
My breath stutters, trying to find logic. “I should—”
“You want me,” he finishes, voice dropping.
I surge forward and slam both hands into his chest, shoving him back until he collides with the edge of the bar. The bottles rattle behind him, glass chiming in protest.
“Don’t you dare say that like it’s something to be smug about.” I snarl in warning.
He looks down at me now, truly looks, eyes burning with something dangerous. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My body is a war zone of rage and desire, both clawing at each other and neither willing to give ground. My heart pounds so hard it hurts and my skin feels too tight and aware.
Then he flips us so quickly I yelp out, my back connecting with the wood as his hands slide to frame either side of me. If my heart was beating before, it’s jackhammering now as I drop my head back to look up to him.
“Feel the way I’ve crawled inside of you?” he whispers, mouth dipping to my ear. “The way I’ve infected every thought and desire.”
“Stop,” I rasp.
“No,” he growls, his fingers tightening on the bar top. “You want me to leave, then you say it like you mean it.”
“Alex.”
“Those aren’t the words you’re looking for. Though I do like hearing my name come off your lips so breathless.” He whispers, his mouth dragging the shell of my ear.
“You don’t get to win,” I whimper, more of a plea than anything.
“You no longer have a say in that, so stop pretending.” His hand lashes out to capture my jaw and my eyes blow wide as his mouth angles over my own.
And I hate myself for it, but I surge back up into him.
There is nothing gentle or sweet about the way he kisses me.
It’s a collision of mouths clashing together with all the rage and want we’ve been circling for weeks.
My hands fist in his coat as if I might tear it apart, as if holding him is the only thing keeping me upright.
And the world narrows to heat and the terrible, undeniable knowledge that I’ve crossed a line I can never uncross.