Page 116 of Retrograde

Aron’s hands closed around my hips when I bent to pick it up, but then he froze behind me when he saw what I had in my hands.

“I should throw this out.” His hot breath tickled the side of my face.

“See, I was just thinking ... that you could put it on again. On occasion.” I turned around to face him, tilting my face up and biting my lip.

He grinned at me, and the glint in his eyes told me he understood my meaning perfectly.

“Give me a reason, then.” He traced my cheek with his knuckles.

“A reason?”

“Yes. I can’t be that way with you when you’re such a sweetheart all the time. Show me you want it. Be a brat.”

I know it’s a test of trust. Ever since we got here, Aron’s been nothing but patient and gentle with me, letting me heal at a pace I needed. After a few months, I stopped flinching when he accidentally moved too fast. I stopped agreeing with everything he suggested, and instead asked for what I wanted—as evidenced by the hideous living room curtains I only purchased to see if he’d let me. Gradually, we both stopped having nightmares.

Cross me, was what he really said when I asked him to put the mask back on for me. Show me you trust me enough to do that.

And so today, I did. And now I’m waiting for my reckoning.

Lost in my thoughts, I enter the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. And then I yell and nearly drop it when I turn around.

He’s there by the door, like he’s just materialised from the shadows, his large frame blending into the darkness. His fitted black tank shows off the outline of his abs, tattoos crawling up his arms and neck.

He’s wearing the balaclava. He advances towards me, his steps deliberately slow. I back into the counter, set the glass aside.

“Aron. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Good. You should be scared.”

He’s close enough for his smell to envelop me—fresh and masculine, like pines and mint and leather. He grips my chin to force my gaze to clash with his.

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

His eyes give away nothing—I can’t tell if he’s amused or angry. I can’t tell if it’s just make-believe. My heart’s speeding up, and my knees turn to jelly.

“Aron,” I plead, my voice shaky.

Instantly, I’m regretting everything and craving the safety I’ve learnt to associate with him over the past few months—the cocoon of his warm embrace, the words he whispers in my ear every night, the way he likes to wake me up by bringing me to an orgasm with his tongue.

I wanted this. But maybe I’m not ready. Maybe I will never be. And what if I took it too far, pushed him too far, and brought out that long-buried wrath of his back to life?

I’m sure my turmoil is clear on my face. I’m hoping he’ll comfort me, seeing how scared I am.

“Those puppy eyes won’t save you,” he assures harshly instead. “You’ve been a very bad girl.” His hands close around my waist. “And I plan on spending the rest of the night punishing you.” He squeezes hard enough to leave bruises. “Slowly. And thoroughly.”

“Aron ...”

The eyes in the slit of the mask stray towards our back porch doorway, currently closed off by the security metal grille. He chuckles faintly. The sound carries a faint but unmistakable sadistic edge, and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest.

“Aron,” I plead more insistently.

“Grab the bars and bend over. Legs apart.”

He whips me around, pushing me to the grille.

“Fuck, Aron ... can’t you take it easy?” I dig my heels in, refusing to budge.

“Not a chance in hell, Hotshot.” He growls in my ear, and I whimper. “Not as the Necromancer.” He grabs my ass, roughly, kneading the sensitive area with his fingers. “But as your husband who loves you more than anything in the world?” He rubs his masked cheek against mine, nudging me playfully, and I nearly topple with relief. “Sure. If you say your safe word.”