Page 4 of Retrograde

“No need for introductions,” he says. “You know who I am, and I know exactly who you are, Tamara ‘Riley’ Volkova.”

His voice is low and deep, and its timbre sends shivers through me. I can’t take my eyes off him. This can’t be real.

“What?” he asks curtly, noticing my attention. “What were you expecting, a monster?”

The two men holding Corrado snicker.

“I didn’t expect you to be handsome,” I say matter-of-factly, and they all howl.

The right corner of Aron’s mouth hikes up in a lop-sided smirk.

“And I didn’t expect you to be so honest,” he retorts. “That’s good. It’ll make things easier.”

His accent is harsh, his r’s sharp and hard-rolled, his t’s and d’s spoken with an emphasis like the thud of a falling hammer.

“We’ll tell you anything you want to know. We’re on your side! You must hear us out!” Corrado pleads, his pitch high and words tumbling out too fast.

“Oh, there’s plenty I want to know, trust me,” Aron replies, his eyes glinting with cruel excitement that turns my knees to jelly. “But first things first.”

Without any change in his facial expression—without any warning whatsoever—he slaps me so fast I barely register it until my skin starts burning and my ears start ringing. I press my hand to my cheek, gaping at him. Corrado gasps loudly.

“What? Modern-day Joan of Arc can’t handle being slapped?”

Who the hell is Joan of Arc?

“Nah,” Aron drawls nonchalantly. “Come on! I’ve seen the photos of you from Berev. That bullet must have hit your liver, right? Nothing else bleeds like that.”

“You should know,” I remark quietly, and he roars with amusement before slapping my other cheek, harder than before and just as fast.

The impact echoes loudly throughout the cave, emphasised by its eerie acoustics.

“There you go! You’ve been shot on the job. What’s a few slaps, right?”

He hits me again, alternating the side, the blows as well as his voice getting louder.

“You’re not going to cry if I keep slapping you, are you?”

Slap.

“No,” I confirm quietly. “Not for some time anyway.”

Slap.

“You’re tougher than that, is that right?”

Slap.

“Not so much tougher as used to it.”

Slap.

“Yeah, you’ve had men hit you worse, haven’t you? Those bruises you had in those shots from Ornaton? That must have hurt way more than this, right?”

Slap.

“Yes, but you’re getting there.”

My remark earns me another malicious peal of laughter. The pins and needles in my face are getting worse, searing into my flesh.