60. Epilogue
Pitch breathes as it always has.
This time we’re in an abandoned hospital that is just as eerily crafted as every other event we’ve been to since the first.
A year ago, I walked into this place trembling in lace and detail. Tonight, I walk in steady and in complete control.
Alex and I enter together through the side entrance reserved for the staff. And I smile up at him beneath my mask as I weave our fingers together. It’s a strange couples activity, but it’s ours.
Three days after I broke into his apartment we eloped in Vegas. So cliche of us, but there was neon chapels and cheap flowers. The whole nine yards. Imogen even came as witness, arms crossed and eyes sharp, daring him to give her a single reason to drag him away from me.
He didn’t give her a reason. Not that I honestly thought he would. Now, if she knew about what we do at Pitch? What I do at Pitch? She might lose her fucking mind.
I sigh, leaning my head into his shoulder as we walk and I watch mildly amused as people scatter. All save for a handful of the few who are just as batshit as Plague. The wolf for example. I still spend most of my time in here avoiding his ass when I venture away from Plague to do my own thing.
The only thing that has changed about this place from then and now, is that Plague no longer fucks the ones that pique his curiosity. Not just because I’d take his balls if he did, but because somehow he’s found as much satisfaction in me as I have him.
It’s an odd, fucked up and possessively toxic kind of love that neither of us ever bother to question.
It takes a while, but soon Pitch is full. New blood with an old hunger. Silver bracelets catching in the strobe-lights, charms whispering their histories with every moment. As always, excitement coils tight beneath the music, anticipation pressing against the mirrors.
That’s when my eyes snag on her.
She stands near the outer edge of the hall the bulk of the people are being funneled through.
Long chestnut hair falling straight down her back, untouched by hands or the intent of this place.
Even past her mask, I can see the freckles that scatter across her skin.
Her posture closed off and arms tucked in, but her eyes are a bright blue that watch everything.
She doesn’t move closer to anything, but she doesn’t retreat either. A part of me wonders if she’s just waiting.
I feel Plague register her from where he stands behind me, his arms wrapped around my neck. The subtle shift in his stance as his attention angles in her direction. I swear the fucker has a radar for the broken.
I reach up, sliding my hand into his. The effect is immediate. His fingers curl around mine and the tension doesn’t vanish, but redirects. His head tilts slightly, the beak of his mask brushing my ear to acknowledge my decision.
She’s not ours and something tells me Plague and I can’t offer her what she needs to find here in Pitch. Call it a hunch.
The girl never notices us as she drifts away, pulled by something else. A different door and fate.
“Is there a reason we skipped?” He murmurs, voice distorted.
“There is,” I muse.
He snorts. “Okay, then.”
His grip tightens, approval humming beneath the leather and bone. Pitch continues around us, terrible and alive. The strobe lights catching everyone’s masks and the glint in their eyes.
A year ago, this place cracked me open.
Tonight, I stand inside it whole.
And somewhere out there, a quiet girl with blue eyes just brushed the edge of something dark and may just walk away. I won’t lie and say it will be untouched though.
Something tells me she’ll be back.
Not for him, but for herself.
And when she does?
Pitch will be ready.