Page 30 of Pit

I hear her move and then the sheets rustling, and I smile to myself, thinking she’s following my orders. But then her lamp turns on and illuminates the room once again. I sigh heavily. “Why?” she asks.

“Why what?”

“Why do you want me in here with you?”

“It’s what you want too,” I say, closing my eyes in the hope she’ll follow my lead.

“Bullshit, Pit. I’m so fucking confused.”

When I open my eyes, she’s resting her forehead on her knees like she’s exhausted. “Why have we got to question it and pull it apart, Te? Let’s just enjoy it.”

“While it lasts?” she questions, turning her head to the side so she can see me. “Because I can’t do this anymore, Pit. I lie beside you, wondering if tonight will be the night that you,” she swallows hard, “kill me.”

“We’re waiting on your man to come rescue you.”

She gives an empty laugh. “He isn’t fucking coming, is he? If he was, he’d have been in contact by now.”

“He paid a lot of money,” I say, the words turning my stomach. “He’ll come for you.”

“And when he does, then what?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“See,” she snaps, throwing her feet over the edge of the bed and standing. “I know what will happen—you’ll kill him for taking your stuff, and then you’ll kill me. I’m the fucking bait, right?”

When I don’t answer, she heads for the door, but before she’s even touched the handle, I’m out of bed and grabbing heraround the waist. I hold her to me, pressing my nose to her hair and inhaling. “Just give me more time,” I whisper, not really knowing what the fuck I mean, just knowing I need her to stay. “I’ll work it out.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means give me more time,” I grit out.

“Are you and London . . .” Her words trail off, and I feel her relax into me.

“No,” I say firmly. “It’s just you.”

She turns in my arms. “Really?”

I nod, brushing hair from her face. “Now, please, come to bed.” She gives a slight nod, and I relax, taking her hand and leading her back.

Once she’s settled against my chest, I close my eyes.

“Pit?” They shoot open again. “How did you get the scar?” She runs her fingers over the jagged scar that runs across my cheek.

“A piece of glass,” I tell her, allowing my eyes to shut once more while she continues to touch my face.

“Who did it?”

I smirk. “Did you have a nice childhood, Tessa?”

“Not really. You?”

I shake my head, and her hand falls from my scar and rests against my chest. “No. My mum cut my face.”

I feel her stiffen slightly. “Why?”

“Because she was off her face on drugs and thought I was the devil.” I laugh. “Maybe she was right.”

“How old were you?”

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