Page 10 of Retrograde

No way am I giving him that moment.

“Is that what you do in your spare time here? Poke around people’s assholes?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah, I have men for that. But I already told you, Riley. You’re special.”

“Lucky me!” I retort. “Why? Why would you make me think you were going to ...” I trail off. “Why make it so difficult?” I ask even though I don’t need to; I know exactly why.

To mess with my head. Prolonging and frustrating a fear is often worse than fulfilling it. A bastard like him would know that too well.

“You never asked what I was going to do. If you want to assume the worst about me, that’s your choice. Usually the right one, I’ve got to say. But again, there are exceptions.”

With a smug smile, he marches out, shutting the cell door behind himself.

“Hey, asshole, what about my clothes?”

I step as close as I can get to him, my chest pressed against the bars. His eyes drop to my breasts, irritation flickering across his features briefly as he drags his gaze back up to my face.

“Ah, well, normally, I would let you keep those. But you threatened to hang yourself with them. No way in hell am I giving you the chance.”

I open and close my mouth in a quick succession without making any sound, like a fish tossed ashore.

“You can’t leave me here like this!” I finally manage to force out, horrified.

“Can’t I?”

“No! It’s too cold!” I protest, realising only then that the tip of my nose is numb.

“Tough.” He shrugs, turning to walk away.

“You son of a bitch,” I spit out. “Keep telling yourself you’re doing this for freedom or justice or whatever. But really, you’re doing it because you’re enjoying it. You’re just a sadistic, degenerate piece of shit, nothing more.”

“No.” He tilts his head slowly. “No, you’re wrong about me,” he sneers at me, his lips curling over his teeth, his eyes oozing with simmering hatred. “I am traitors’ reckoning. And you, Hotshot, are a fucking traitor.”

3

ARON

The traitor’s shrieks follow me on my way out. I ignore them. When I reach the exit, I hit the light switch. Let the bitch stew in the dark.

The metal door resists as I try to close it behind me, scraping on the sandy ground. I finally manage to shut it with an angry push and a loud bang that’s sure to echo loudly inside the cave.

The afternoon sun is high in the sky, its powerful rays falling across the dusty plane—a natural courtyard surrounded on all sides by cave formations. A long time ago, this place was a small village. The dwellings are built directly into the formations, caves adjusted to serve as rooms. It’s the perfect hideout. We’ve stayed here longer than we have ever stayed anywhere else. I’ll be sorry to go when the time comes. And it is coming.

Right after the bombs fell, not only did the newly created Radiation Rift itself become an exclusion zone, but these Rift-adjacent territories were mostly evacuated and left to their fate. The one oversight that the Consuls have ever made. Ungoverned, this so-called Rifterland became a stronghold for rebels and resistance groups, as well as people who just want to be left alone. Collectively known as Rifters. But all our efforts to push east have failed. And now, five years after Rift Day, the Continuum cunts are sniffing around and foaming at the mouth to reclaim every square mile. No matter what we do, they will keep pushing us further and further west until there’s nowhere left to go but the Rift. We can keep draining their resources all we want, but one day, we’ll die fighting them. We all know that. Our resistance is doomed. We’re not fighting because we think success is possible. We’re fighting because some failures are better than others. Slaughter is better than surrender.

I lean back against the rough cave wall and close my eyes, letting the warmth seep under my skin. It’s fucking freezing inside the cave. I’m going to need to let the traitor warm up periodically unless I want her to die of pneumonia.

A strange sense of letdown is erasing anything inside me that resembled determination until all that’s left is frustrated rage.

For so long, I have wanted to make an example of Riley. She was the beginning of the end. She let us down like no one else. Her betrayal sowed resigned disappointment into our souls, and when the Continuum forces encroached on the last of our territories like gangrene eating into healthy flesh, all they had to do was reap.

I pictured the tableaus I wanted to make of her. I pictured baiting the mustards and leading them to her while she was still fresh. Her face still hers, recognisable, but her body grotesque, mutilated, transformed. I pictured the outcome so often, and yet I never once thought about its execution.

I haven’t hurt many women. And those that I have were in the army. Big, strong, combat-trained. More than capable of giving me a fair fight. And still, I hated that and never prolonged it beyond the necessary. Men smaller than me, I enjoy only marginally more. It’s men my own size that I like breaking slowly, savouring their screams, their pain, the realisation dawning in their eyes that they aren’t invincible.

I have wanted to hurt Riley for so long, without ever considering that I may not have it in me to do it. Not until today, when confronted with the physical reality of her small, female body. With her slender shoulders, with her narrow ribcage and the surprisingly sharp swell of her hips. With her rosebud nipples and her delicate pink cunt, so tight that even just my finger felt snug inside it.

And fuck, her face! I already knew she was pretty from all the photos I’ve seen of her. Still, I wasn’t prepared. For those blue eyes, the soft scattering of freckles across her high cheekbones, those slightly down-turned lips that make her look sad ...