Page 15 of Retrograde

But she also knows I’ll hurt Corrado if I catch her in a lie.

So, what’s it going to be, Hotshot? Loyalty or fear? No matter which wins, you still lose. In here, you only ever lose.

“I’m claustrophobic,” she admits quietly.

Damn it. I was really hoping this would go the other way.

“That’s unfortunate,” I remark sardonically, shocked when she scoffs in almost an amused way.

“Yeah, no shit.”

She returns her attention to her meal. I have to wait here until she’s finished, too aware of the proximity of her naked body. It’s like an itch underneath the surface of my skin, like being in an overheated room, like being thirsty. I try to ignore it. Tonight, I’ll fuck some little slut senseless to get whatever this is out of my system.

“I saw your photos,” I tell the traitor, curious to see her reaction. “Macabre Marvels.”

Her arm freezes mid-air, fingers tightening around the mug. She sets it back down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh.”

I wait for her to say more.

“Those are some pretty pictures.” I nudge her when she doesn’t. “I don’t think you’ve missed a single one of my sites.”

“I tried not to.”

I raise my eyebrows at her questioningly. She hesitates before explaining, “No matter what I think of you as a person, your art ... it fascinates me,” she admits.

My jaw drops.

“You call what I do ... art?”

I lean closer to her, which I only realise as she recoils, like she’s trying to disappear into the wall. And fuck, the fear in her face; eyes wide and shining, lips slightly parted, the faintest crease between her well-spaced eyebrows. I have vastly different reactions to people’s fear. Sometimes it pisses me off. Other times, it gets me going and makes me hungry for more. Rarely does it fill me with regret. But in her case, it tugs at something instinctive, something primal inside me. I choose not to dwell on it.

“What do you call it?”

Tableaus. Because it sounds better than ‘sites of torture and mass murder’. It has never once occurred to me to call what I do ‘art’. The fact that it has to her piques my interest.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Which one was your favourite? The Crosses?” I ask her, ignoring her question.

“Hard to say.” She inclines her head, grimacing in indecision, mulling it over like she’s forgotten all about where she is. “The Crosses are iconic. And all the more interesting because it showed you punish your own just the sa⁠—”

“My own?” I cut her off, my annoyance flaring.

“They were all Reprobates, were they not?” The harmless innocence in her expression pacifies me even when I don’t want it to. “Aren’t Reprobates one of the rebel groups?”

“Is that what the mustards tell you?” I shake my head in disgust. “Reprobates never had anything to do with us. They are fanatics,” I elaborate, seeing her confusion.

“Oh yes, completely different then.” She gives me a pointed look and then flinches when I chuckle and shift my weight.

“Touché, but they are. All they care about is orgies and rituals. Now, I take no issue with the first.” I raise my hands mockingly, and the traitor laughs.

And just what the fuck am I doing, making her laugh?

“I saw a few photos. They were ... picturesque.” She blushes. “Still, they are Rifters.”

“No,” I counter grimly. “Rifters live and let live. Those thirteen were no better than raiders. Went on a killing spree as a rite of passage. Killed an entire village.”

Riley groans. “Their wounds showed they were still alive when you cut them open?” It’s neither a statement nor a question.

“Oh yes,” I confirm, my voice dripping with vitriol. “Alive and conscious, every single one of them. Is that your favourite then?