Page 3 of Retrograde

He shakes his head slowly, mournfully. “No.”

Fresh tears well in my eyes, different from the earlier ones. These are not from a drop in adrenaline, but from a crushing sense of failure.

“Fuck!”

I get up, pacing. But I can barely make it two steps from the bars before I need to duck to avoid smashing my forehead against the limestone.

“Who are they? Do you know? Did you get a chance to see?”

Corrado sighs heavily. “Black hoods and skull masks.”

My legs buckle underneath me, and I crash back to my knees next to him. “Retrograde?” I reach out, frantically trying to grab onto him. My trembling hands close around his forearms as his do around mine.

“I think so,” he confirms quietly, almost apologetically.

“No! Fuck! No!” I cover my face, my chest constricting with panic.

My blood runs cold when it becomes clear to me what we must do, knowing that it’s the only bearable way out of this.

“We have to kill ourselves.” Nails dig into my palms when I ball my fists. “We have to find a way to self-destruct. NOW.”

“Wolfie!” Corrado gasps, his fingers curling iron-tight around my shoulders.

“No, listen to me, we have to! You know who they are ... you’ve seen what they’ve done. And you know who they’ll think we are!” I press.

He keeps muttering on repeat, shaking his head like a child, protesting feebly, desperately. “No, no, no.”

“Fuck!” I breathe hard through my nose, my voice breaking. “I kept saying that we should carry cyanide pills.”

“Wolfie, stop!” Corrado scrambles away from me, shrinking away from what I’m proposing. “We can’t. There’s always hope!”

“No, there isn’t!” I get up to my feet, towering over his crouching form as I advance upon him. “Not this time, Corrado! It’s Retrograde for fuck’s sake! It’s him! You know he’s a fanatic! He can’t be reasoned with. There’s no way out of this!”

Suddenly, a metallic clank sounds behind me. A dull thud echoes throughout the confined space. The cave is flooded with light as a lone lightbulb comes to life just outside the bars.

Heavy footsteps are drawing near, unhurried and relentless.

Corrado jumps up, and I crash against his chest. We’re holding onto each other for dear life as I keep insisting, even though it’s pointless now, “Maybe we could hang ourselves using our clothes. Corrado, please. Please!”

“Too late for that, Hotshot.” A gravelly voice comes from right behind me.

I freeze, violent shivers running through me like mortal throes, my heart leaping out of my chest. Unlike me, Corrado is facing whoever it is. His body starts quaking uncontrollably in my arms, his teeth chattering.

The cell door scrapes the ground with a screech as it opens. A pair of very large, warm hands closes firmly around my waist. Corrado’s hold on me tightens, his breath sour in my nostrils and his whimpers loud in my ears. But we’re pulled apart as two men drag him away from me, whilst the man behind me holds me in place.

My body feels soft and small pressed against the bulk of his, his stomach sculpted against my back, the muscles in his thighs rock hard against my ass. I’ve been in situations like these before. But never have I felt so completely, so viscerally at someone’s mercy.

His hands move up, and he whips me around to face him. I catch his scent, masculine and surprisingly fresh. My eyes land on his chest, every bulging muscle outlined by the straining fabric of his black T-shirt. I drag my gaze up to his face.

A face he hides from the world behind his skull masks. Only the eyes are familiar—from news, both fake and real. I would recognise those eyes anywhere.

Set beneath severe eyebrows, their colour is like molten mahogany, their gaze intense and discomforting enough to make me drop my own to the less familiar portion of his visage.

His mouth surprises me. Its corners are a little upturned, lending it a permanent, sarcastic half-smile. The lips are softer and fuller than I expected and shockingly sensual. Somehow, I never considered the possibility that he might be good-looking. It unsettles me as I take in the well-defined jaw, the olive shade of his skin, the rich mid-length hair.

Aron Krasnik. The Necromancer.

Retrograde is the most unpredictable and violent rebel group, and he is their notoriously vicious, psychopathic leader. An Old Testament god of a world broken beyond repair. There is not a Continuum soldier who is not scared of him. And in his eyes, we’re as good as one of those soldiers, fit to meet the same bloody end.