Page 20 of Retrograde

Sometimes he doesn’t say a word to me the whole time; other times he’s taunting me, and occasionally he’s in the mood to talk some more about his creations. My own mood is even more volatile than his these days.

I’ve argued with him, and I’ve pleaded, and I’ve ignored his presence. But mostly I find myself catering to his wishes regarding our conversation. I tell myself this is out of fear for Corrado and not because I get so lonely down here that I welcome any company, including his.

During my many solitary hours, I unravel. I cry, I struggle to breathe, I sit motionless until I can’t stand the cold anymore. I hardly ever have anything resembling coherent thoughts. Mostly, I can’t focus on anything, my mind jumping from one thing to another like a neurotic grasshopper on speed. From one emotion to another. From impotent anger to profound despair to fickle hope. Over and over, on repeat.

ARON

It’s busy at Luka’s tonight, noisy and suffocatingly hot. I pull the skull mask away from my face, wiping the sweat off. The air is heavy with the sour reek of beer and the tang of minced meat sausages. One motherfucker of a headache is starting to throb in my temples. The loud, drunk voices are grating against my nerves. If the fucking patrolmen don’t show up right now, I’ll make fucking minced meat sausages out of them once they do. Not that any of the alternatives I’ve planned for them are more pleasant.

I was supposed to be back at the caves by now. I was going to spend my evening in the traitor’s cell. She’s been getting chattier lately, more comfortable with me. I’ve seen this before: prisoners getting so bored and lonely that they start enjoying their jailor’s company. Whenever that happens, I become as unpredictable as can be, going from almost friendly to silently hostile to vocally bullying. But no matter what, I haven’t managed to get enough of a rise out of her to punish her again. I may have overdone it with the kneeling. But how the fuck was I to know she’d learn so fast?

Not that it hasn’t been fun. She’s a challenge. I like a challenge.

I’m pissed off. I’ve been looking forward to my fix of adrenaline—the thrill of a raid. But instead, I just want it done quickly. I want to go play with my new toy.

The mosaic-glass door creaks. I yank my mask down just as a large, round, apron-donned gut comes into view, followed shortly by the rest of Luka, the pub owner.

“Well?” I bark at him.

“Not here yet.” Frightful eyes fixed on me, Luka shakes his head, his walrus moustache twitching.

The top of his bald, sweat-sheened head barely reaches up to my shoulders.

“You said around seven, always around seven. It’s now almost ten,” I snarl.

“T-they were supposed to be here. Every day they come around seven. I don’t know,” he stammers. “I don’t want any trouble.”

I only yawn in response. His gulp is audible even over the music and laughter coming from the front of the pub.

“I just don’t want any trouble,” he repeats, more desperately.

He’s going to put me to fucking sleep.

“Go,” I tell him. “Let us know the minute they get here.”

“Y-yes.” Poor fucker bows as he exits, and I chuckle noiselessly.

Attila shakes his head.

“What are you giving him a hard time for?” he asks. “He’s helping us.”

I only shrug. “He’s helping himself. He was too loudly anti-Continuum. If they fully seize the Rifterland, his life is over,” I point out. “We were supposed to be done by now, for fuck’s sake. I’m so fucking bored I could cry.”

Attila narrows his eyes at me, gleaming green in the slit of his skull balaclava. “You just want to go back to your little photographer whore.”

One of the ten men behind us snickers, and I whip around, glaring. Fury soars through me, but I rein it in.

“I just want to get some fucking action already,” I mutter.

“Bullshit. She must have one sweet cunt.”

“Fuck off.”

No idea what Attila would say if he knew I haven’t touched Riley’s sweet cunt since the day I captured her. Fucked if I know why.

Not like I haven’t pictured it—who wouldn’t? I have imagined storming in, fear pooling in her eyes as I’d approach her, her lips parting, that soft, frightened crease on her brow. She wouldn’t scream. I know her enough to know she wouldn’t scream. I’d fist the hair at the back of her head, tilting her face up. I’d bite her plump pink lip hard enough to draw blood, and I would smear the red all over her mouth. Then I’d grab her and slam her into the wall, bruising her back. Her thighs wrapped around me, my hand would be under her ass, and my fingers would slowly inch their way to her entrance. That’s when the fear would melt away, liquefying, her sapphire eyes darkening. And that’s the moment that never fails to send all the blood in my body south. That moment when her terror would turn to ecstasy. That moment when I would corrupt her with pleasure and depravity, like releasing a caged beast into the wilderness. That moment when I would make her forget everything, including her own name. Make her forget that I was her enemy.

I snap out of it before anyone notices my tenting trousers. Just in time, too.