Page 33 of Retrograde

“Fuck it.” His voice sounds from the front of the cave.

His steps echo like the cave’s heartbeat. He comes into view, tall, sculpted, his mask still on and his eyes blazing.

“What else do you want from me?” I snap at him, my hatred resurfacing fast.

He harmed the only person in my life who’s ever been truly good to me. I don’t care what he does to me—I want to hurt him back, if it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.

I bend down, fingers outstretched, reaching for a stone.

“Don’t even think about it!” he hisses at me. “Throw it at me, and I swear to fucking god I’ll bend you over my knee and shove it up your ass.”

Chill creeps up my spine at his words.

“You hurt him!” My fingers close around the jagged piece of gravel, and I straighten. “You cut off his ear, you fucking psychopath!” My voice is accusing, almost hysterical—I sound like I’m on the verge of crying, and I hate that.

“Do you really think that’s the worst I could have done?” Aron echoes my earlier thoughts.

He is fumbling with the keys, inked muscles bulging, hands shaking. He drops the keys and mutters under his breath as he picks them up. What is up with him?

It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.

“You’re nothing more than a sadistic bastard!” I bring my arm back, readying for the throw.

“Don’t do it.” His voice cuts through me—a sneering, sing-song voice. “Trust me, Hotshot, all you’d get out of it is a punishment.” He finally manages to unlock the door, and he steps inside, large, looming, oppressive like a descending storm.

Despite the nonchalant tone, there is unease in his posture, a strange disquiet buzzing around him like an aura.

I hesitate, my bravado fading as quickly as it surfaced, replaced by fear and frustration. There’s not a thing I can do to him. Not a thing it wouldn’t be in his power to repay a thousandfold. I’m completely powerless against him.

Groaning, I lower my arm.

His menacing eyes fixed on me, he closes the distance between us. The way he moves is mesmerising; the grace of the large bulk of him, the interplay of muscles, the coordination ... The effect on me is unsettling. It taps into something primal deep inside of me. Something that won’t let me look away.

“Drop it,” he orders me, and when I obey like I’m hypnotised, he drones with grim satisfaction, “Good girl.”

“Fuck off.” I bite my lip.

His hand shoots forward fast, fingers closing around my throat in an iron grip. I gasp for breath, eyes going wide in shock. I claw at him, my nails scraping across his knuckles.

“You’ve got a filthy mouth, Hotshot,” he tuts, his grasp on me relenting as he runs his thumb over my lower lip.

“You’re one to talk,” I retort, my heart galloping.

“I like it.”

My breath catches, and he chuckles, the sound low and ominous. He moves his hand up slowly. Releasing my throat, he grazes my cheek with his knuckles before his fingers tangle in my hair.

“Kneel,” he orders me, bringing me down.

“What? Not this again,” I yelp when my knees, still tender from the last time, land on the gravel.

“Stay,” he growls.

“Stop talking to me like I’m a dog.” I want to protest, but the words melt away from my lips when he reaches for the zipper of his trousers. “Aron, what are you doing?” I demand, my creeping dread stealing force from my voice.

“Did you think there’d be no consequences, Hotshot? No punishment?”

His voice is thick and scalding like melted caramel. It lacks its usual hateful edge. Seeing I’ve gone docile, he loosens the grip on my hair in favour of coiling a strand around his finger.