5. Aron
ARON
Balancing the plate and the mug of tea in one hand, with a blanket thrown over my arm, I hit the light switch and slam the metal door behind me with a bang.
Night has fallen, and fuck me, it’s gotten even colder in here. I descend into the cave’s mouth, stomping my feet on purpose, their thuds resonating.
I reach the cell to find the traitor huddled in the corner, hugging her knees and squinting, her eyes unaccustomed to the light.
Pale and shaking, she looks awful. She doesn’t move or even look at me as I unlock the cell door. I set the plate and mug down in front of her.
“Get up,” I order her.
She keeps staring past me vacantly. My anger soars when I think she’s about to ignore me.
But she rises to her feet unsteadily like she barely has the strength to do so.
Her skin is covered in goosebumps, and her nipples are pebbled.
She doesn’t bother to hide them from me, her arms hanging limply by her sides.
“You need to warm up.” I wrap the blanket around her, leaving her right arm free so that she can drink and eat.
I brush her shoulder with my fingers, and a shiver zaps through me like electricity.
My cock twitches, already at half-mast from the sight of her body.
It’s fucking annoying that she looks the way she does.
I haven’t as much as touched a woman in a while, and that’s making me react to her in a way I really don’t want to be reacting to her.
Maybe it’s time to unload into a cunt for a change and not just into my hand in the shower.
“There.” I take my hands off the traitor. “Now sit down and eat. And drink that tea while it’s warm. You need it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t need it if—” Not letting her finish, I grab the hair at her nape and jerk her backwards, her body slamming into the cave’s rough wall.
She yelps even though I protected her head, scraping my already bloodied knuckles against the rock. Next time I won’t, I promise myself—if she’s stupid enough for there to be a next time.
She needs to understand. She’s trapped. There’s no talking me out of anything. There’s no escape. There’s nothing for her to do but give in to the despair I bring. And she will, even if she doesn’t know it yet. Everyone does in the end.
But fuck, the look on her! Her face framed by her chin-length brown hair, those wounded-puppy eyes, the freckles. And that frightened ‘O’ of her mouth ... wouldn’t I enjoy shoving my cock in there.
Said cock pulses in my pants at the thought, rock hard, the tip moist with precum.
“Listen to me, Hotshot, and listen carefully because I don’t like repeating myself.
” She’s staring up at me with something that’s not so much shock as a refusal to engage.
“I do with you as I see fit. If I want you naked in here, you’ll be naked in here.
If I decide to feed you nothing but bread, you’ll eat nothing but bread.
And if ...” My smirk is wide and vicious.
“If I ever feel like putting that pretty, pink pussy of yours to good use, you’ll fucking take it, you hear me?
And if I tell you to say thank you afterwards, you’ll say fucking thank you.
” With each word, my volume rises. “Because from today until the end of what I’ll make sure is a very short, very miserable life, you belong to me.
I do whatever the fuck I want with you.”
I’m expecting her to start crying. I’m pretty sure that buddy of hers would have. But her eyes stay dry.
“Are you done?” Her lips stretch in a smirk of her own.
“Don’t test me. Sit. Drink the damn tea. Eat.”
She juts her chin out defiantly. Holding my gaze, she sinks to her knees lazily. One leg after the other, instantly making me think of getting a blow job.
Fuck. Is she doing this on purpose? No, I don’t think she is. Something tells me it has never once occurred to her to use the way she looks as a weapon. And just fucking imagine if it had ...
I squat down opposite her, watching her take a sip and a small bite of cheese. While she chews, her eyes stray to my battered hand and darken in recognition—likely guessing correctly how the knuckles came to be this way.
“You look like shit. What’s wrong with you?” I ask, even though I already know; I’m putting that blunt honesty of hers to the test.
If she lies to me, I’ll pop the crybaby’s kneecap off with my knife and make her watch.
She swallows heavily and then studies my face.
It’s like I can see her frantic thoughts, the wheels of her mind spinning and spinning.
If she tells me the truth, she’ll be sharing her biggest weakness with me.
Handing me the proverbial loaded gun. And there can be no doubt in her mind that I intend to use it.
But she also knows I’ll hurt Corrado if I catch her in a lie.
So, what’s it going to be, Hotshot? Loyalty or fear? No matter which wins, you still lose. In here, you only ever lose.
“I’m claustrophobic,” she admits quietly.
Damn it. I was really hoping this would go the other way.
“That’s unfortunate,” I remark sardonically, shocked when she scoffs in almost an amused way.
“Yeah, no shit.”
She returns her attention to her meal. I have to wait here until she’s finished, too aware of the proximity of her naked body.
It’s like an itch underneath the surface of my skin, like being in an overheated room, like being thirsty.
I try to ignore it. Tonight, I’ll fuck some little slut senseless to get whatever this is out of my system.
“I saw your photos,” I tell the traitor, curious to see her reaction. “Macabre Marvels.”
Her arm freezes mid-air, fingers tightening around the mug. She sets it back down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh.”
I wait for her to say more.
“Those are some pretty pictures.” I nudge her when she doesn’t. “I don’t think you’ve missed a single one of my sites.”
“I tried not to.”
I raise my eyebrows at her questioningly. She hesitates before explaining, “No matter what I think of you as a person, your art ... it fascinates me,” she admits.
My jaw drops.
“You call what I do ... art?”
I lean closer to her, which I only realise as she recoils, like she’s trying to disappear into the wall.
And fuck, the fear in her face; eyes wide and shining, lips slightly parted, the faintest crease between her well-spaced eyebrows.
I have vastly different reactions to people’s fear.
Sometimes it pisses me off. Other times, it gets me going and makes me hungry for more.
Rarely does it fill me with regret. But in her case, it tugs at something instinctive, something primal inside me. I choose not to dwell on it.
“What do you call it?”
Tableaus. Because it sounds better than ‘sites of torture and mass murder’. It has never once occurred to me to call what I do ‘art’. The fact that it has to her piques my interest.
“Alright, I’ll bite. Which one was your favourite? The Crosses?” I ask her, ignoring her question.
“Hard to say.” She inclines her head, grimacing in indecision, mulling it over like she’s forgotten all about where she is. “The Crosses are iconic. And all the more interesting because it showed you punish your own just the sa—”
“My own?” I cut her off, my annoyance flaring.
“They were all Reprobates, were they not?” The harmless innocence in her expression pacifies me even when I don’t want it to. “Aren’t Reprobates one of the rebel groups?”
“Is that what the mustards tell you?” I shake my head in disgust. “Reprobates never had anything to do with us. They are fanatics,” I elaborate, seeing her confusion.
“Oh yes, completely different then.” She gives me a pointed look and then flinches when I chuckle and shift my weight.
“Touché, but they are. All they care about is orgies and rituals. Now, I take no issue with the first.” I raise my hands mockingly, and the traitor laughs.
And just what the fuck am I doing, making her laugh?
“I saw a few photos. They were ... picturesque.” She blushes. “Still, they are Rifters.”
“No,” I counter grimly. “Rifters live and let live. Those thirteen were no better than raiders. Went on a killing spree as a rite of passage. Killed an entire village.”
Riley groans. “Their wounds showed they were still alive when you cut them open?” It’s neither a statement nor a question.
“Oh yes,” I confirm, my voice dripping with vitriol. “Alive and conscious, every single one of them. Is that your favourite then?
“Maybe. But I also really like the Angels.”
Recollections flash through my mind, fragments of images; exposed flesh, the skin flayed in two large patches, still attached at the back and spread to the sides like wings, held together with wire. Arranged in a circle of horror.
“Good pick.” I hesitate for a heartbeat, then give in; this is the most conversation I’ve ever had with anyone about what I do. “I’ve got to give it to you. The way you took photos of them ... I think they looked even more impressive than in real life.”
“I was lucky with the light.” She shrugs off the praise. “Sunset, blue summer skies ... always does the trick. What is your favourite?”
“The Alleyway.” My reply is instant, like I’ve been waiting for years to say it, and in a way I have, since no one has ever asked me before. “But I think you would’ve had to have been there when they were still alive to appreciate it.”
“I thought it was impressive as it was.” She shudders. “One of the more haunting ones for sure. The stakes ...”
“The most brutal one, probably. I first heard about this method at school. In a history class about ancient ... whatever it was. It made my stomach turn. Back then, I couldn’t imagine hating anyone enough to want to do that to them.
These days, it’s hard to resist the temptation and save it only for a select few.
” I shake my head. “The thing that made the Alleyway my favourite was the screams. Now remember, I’d heard a lot of screaming before. But not like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“This was an orchestra of pure agony.”
Chills run through me at the memory, and a smile carves its way onto my face, lips stretching over my teeth.
“You did great with those.” I make the compliment sound just sarcastic enough to hide that I’m serious.
“Your photos? Those shots of their faces from below? The shadows hit just right. It will never be the same as walking underneath them while they were still alive. But your photos are the next best thing. When I saw them, it was almost like I could hear them again.”
She only hums in response, swallowing her last bite of food and washing it down with the rest of the tea.
Something has shifted in her expression, her gaze more distant, her lips quivering.
I can tell she’s withdrawn from the conversation, losing herself in her own thoughts.
I guess that talking about my tableaus in this detached sort of way is only possible for so long when she knows she’s to become one.
Now she’s scared, and I’m waiting for her to start pleading with me.
To argue that she’s not in the league with those men, that she never hurt anyone.
I almost want her to. I want to have a go at her, yell at her, scare her.
I want to make her think I’m about to hit her—even if I’m not.
I want to see that fear again in her eyes.
She deserves that and more. But she doesn’t give me the satisfaction.
“I need to use the loo,” she says instead. “I’m guessing a shower would be too much to hope for?”
“Not at all!” I suppress the urge to laugh in anticipation. “You’re in luck. This cave is equipped with an ensuite.”
I jump to my feet. She gets up more reluctantly, tripping over the blanket with the first step. Instinctively, my hands shoot forward to steady her, and once again, my fingertips tingle as they touch her skin. This is getting old fast.
“Follow me.”
I let go of her and lead her through the cell’s metal door and around the corner, deeper into the cave and into a stinky cavern strewn with sand and gravel, its furthest corner littered with months of human waste.
I point out the shower-like cascade of water to her as well as a niche in the wall containing soap and sodden rolls of toilet paper.
“Come back when you’re done. Don’t keep me waiting for long, though. I wouldn’t like that, and you know what happens—”
“Why the fuck would I want to take long in here?” she cuts me off, a little green in the face, her anger flaring. “It’s disgusting!”
“In other words, perfect for the likes of you.” With that, I turn around and walk away.
“Three more patrols observed here, here, and here.” Attila jabs the frayed paper map, cigar between his ringed fingers, thin trails of smoke rising towards the already hazy ceiling of the room we use as our headquarters.
It’s wide, but I’m barely able to stand straight without scraping the top of my head against the stone. The four small, uneven windows are barred, and there’s not enough light. A grim place to match the mostly grim discussions we have here.
“Something’s up,” I say, taking a long drag on my own cigar. “Something big.”
Attila refills both our glasses with whiskey. I toss almost all of it back in one go, letting it sear the back of my throat. It’s not great whiskey, but it beats the usual home-brewed liquor that smells and tastes like vomit.
“What do you want to do?”
“Capture, question, carve,” I murmur, and he nods, familiar with my methods. “Then we’ll know what they’re planning.”
“Where and when do you want to start?”
“You could scope Luka’s out tonight. See if any of them stop by there.”
“Alright.” Attila downs the rest of his drink and then puts the cigar out in the empty glass.
“Bring me a girl whilst you’re at it, will you?”
Surprise flashes through Attila’s face. “Any preferences?”
“Short, petite, brown hair not too long.”
His eyes narrow, and he stares at me, assessing me. Not reacting to his scrutiny, I take a leisurely drag on my cigar, chasing it with the rest of my whiskey.
“Freckles and a camera around her neck?” He raises his eyebrows with a sardonic smirk.
“Dickhead,” I snarl.
As one of the few, he’s allowed to speak to me this way without getting his teeth knocked down his throat. But he’s fucking pushing it.
I pull a wad of banknotes from my pocket and hand him a few.
“Get me three packets of condoms, too.”
“Three packets?” he repeats, disbelief slamming into him when he sees I’m serious. “For one night?”
I only shrug in response like I have no idea what he’s on about. I don’t bother explaining to him that the piercing at the tip of my dick shreds through the rubbers like they’re made of paper.
Let him draw his own conclusions.