Page 22 of Retrograde

But he only throws the blanket over me.

“Aren’t you eager to die, Hotshot?” he drawls, studying me.

“Not really. Just eager to be out of this fucking cave.”

He only chuckles in response.

I crouch down next to the plate, my already bruised knees protesting the contact with the ground. The food is always the same: a slice of bread and two triangles of cheese. It tastes of nothing; it’s just stuff to fill the hollowness inside. But I inhale it in complete silence, then drink the tea without allowing it to cool, letting it scald the back of my throat.

Aron sits down with his back against the bars. His shoulders are slumped, and there are shadows under his eyes.

I stir, ready to return the blanket to him, but he stops me. “Keep it for a while longer. I was away for a long time today. You need to warm up.”

“Okay.”

I debate asking him about his day, just to fill the time, to focus my attention on something besides the vice of the walls around me. But I’m too drained to even formulate the question. I haven’t slept properly since I got here. And as I finally get warm, I grow drowsy. Sitting up is too much of a struggle. I lie down, making myself as comfortable as possible.

Aron is watching me, and to escape his relentless gaze, I close my eyes ...

The first thing I see when I wake up is his face. Unconcealed—he’s taken his mask off, revealing deep grooves of fatigue. But his eyes are as intense as ever, sleepiness fusing with something fervent in his look.

I’m lying on my stomach, pebbles pressing hard into my breasts even through the fabric. Unsettled, I realise that the blanket has slid off to my side, leaving my back, ass and legs bare. His attention is fixated on the curve of my hip, and he’s biting his lower lip, simmering with something I don’t want to acknowledge.

I sit up quickly, covering myself. He drags his gaze to my face lazily.

“Tell me, Riley,” he addresses me, his voice low and husky. “Do you enjoy fucking?”

“W-what?”

“Do you like it when men put their cocks inside you?”

I stare at him, my mouth agape.

“Or are you into girls?” His eyes glint with curiosity.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Hmm,” he grumbles. “Did you only have sex when they forced you?”

“What is your fucking point?” I pull the blanket tighter around myself.

“Did you ever let someone fuck you because you wanted to?” His face is without compassion.

“I don’t want to be talking about this with you.” Or with anyone, for that matter.

He grumbles again, then pulls a black hunting knife from the sheath at his belt.

He traces it through the grit on the ground with a scraping noise, drawing a circle. Then he looks directly at me, his eyes burning into mine. “Riley, Riley, Riley ...” he drones. “All I ever do is make people talk who really, really don’t want to talk. I’ve made mustards spill secrets that likely got their entire families killed. It’s a special talent of mine. You really think I won’t find a way to make you tell me whatever I want to know?”

“You’re sick.”

“So?” He shrugs. “Don’t make me get up, Hotshot. If you make me get up, I’ll make you regret it. On top of making you answer any fucking question that I might have.”

His voice is cheery and cruel. Indulgent. Everything inside me twists with anger. “Last chance, Riley.”

I usually know how to handle assholes. Do not rise. Never let them see that they affected you. It’s simple, really, once you come to understand what drives them.

But the Necromancer is a different breed, capable of unsettling me like no one has in ages. Probably because I’ve followed his creations for so long. Because I’ve heard him spoken about with such fear wherever I went. He’s a twisted icon, and because of that, it feels like he matters to me even when he doesn’t. Meeting him is a little too much like meeting a celebrity.