14. Aron
ARON
There’s a knife in my hand. The sunlight is falling in through the sash windows and reflecting off the blade.
I’m very far from our cave holdout. I’m back in my parents’ old apartment.
I haven’t seen the place in years, but it looks exactly as I remember it.
Right down to the overgrown monstera plant that has long taken over the rickety cabinet in the corner, one gigantic leaf nearly covering the glass display with crystal wine goblets, all cracked and dusty.
Riley’s lying on the frayed rug, in nothing but panties and a bra, the delicate white lace in stark contrast with the aggressively red fabric underneath her.
She’s on her side, the position emphasising the curve of her hip and her firm waist, so narrow that I could wrap my hands around it and my fingers would meet at her back.
Her hazelnut hair has fallen over her face, concealing its upper half. Her lips are deep pink and slightly parted. Her breathing is shallow with fear.
I get down on my knees to lean over her, and she whimpers, goosebumps erupting over her soft skin. The blade whispers as I trace it across her thigh, leaving a thin cut behind.
She’s not tied up, and yet she’s not resisting me. Why doesn’t she try to stop me?
Blood blooms. Riley cries out when I push the tip of the knife deeper.
Why won’t she fight me? Why is she just letting me do this to her? How do her instincts not take over?
It’s not adding up. Us being here makes no sense.
The apartment building where my parents, siblings, and I used to live was levelled to the ground. My childhood home is long gone. So how are we here?
I’m asleep!
As soon as the realisation hits, I bolt upright with a half-wheeze, half-groan.
And I’m back at the cave complex. It’s nearly dawn, the bluish light invading the darkness of my room with the first promise of sunlight to come.
Cold crashes through me in shock waves, my body slick with sweat.
My stomach churns at the memory of my dream.
I toss the covers aside and go take a cold shower.
Back in the main living area, I stop by the window.
I look outside, across the clearing in between the rock formations and at the iron door sealing the entrance to Riley’s cave.
I open the window, and chilly air slaps me in the face.
It must be freezing in the cave. As soon as that thought hits, another one trails right after it. The thought of Riley in her cell, curled in a corner on the rough ground, shaking and unable to sleep.
Anything is a fair punishment for a traitor, no exceptions. I’m about the only law left in this land. And the law must be the same for everyone. There can be no pardon for traitors. Ever. If there is, people will just keep switching sides as it suits them, and we’ll never get out of this mess.
Still, images invade my mind. The dark circles around Riley’s sunken eyes, growing darker each day. The increasingly more protruding ribs. The bruises on her hips from having nothing to rest on but the gravel-strewn ground. That haunted expression.
I tear my sight away from the window. I have been accused of being a monster more times than I can count. But for the first time, I feel like one.
“Do you fear death?” I ask the earless zombie patrolman over the chirp of birds as I lean over him.
His face is wet with sweat and tears, his eyes are bulging, and his teeth are chattering. His fear is palpable, like an aura around him. I can almost taste it in the balmy air. And it’s delicious.
“Y-y ...”
“Yes?” I finish for him. “I have great news for you.” I clap his shoulder, hard, and he whimpers.
“You won’t be scared of it anymore by the time I’m done with you.
” He sobs, snot pouring out of his nose.
“You’ll be begging me for it like you’ve never begged for anything in your life.
” I smile, the thrill of violence coursing through my veins like a drug.
“I’m going to cure your fear. I’ll make you a fearless man. ”
He’s naked, bound to my portable cross-shaped table, arms spread to the sides. Sheen of sweat all over his body, ribs outlined with each frantic breath, greying pubic hair hiding a miniature dick in almost its entirety.
“P-Please. I’m just a cog. P-please.”
I drag my knife over his abdomen without piercing the skin, the blade whispering, leaving a thin red line in its wake. Memories of the dream I had assault me. My hand fucking wobbles.
“Hmm. Yes, you are just a cog.” I drone, my breath hot on my face underneath my mask. “But it’s the cogs that make the whole machinery run. I blame the cogs. I hate the cogs.”
“I told you everything you wanted to know!”
“Yes, but you made me work for it,” I point out. “Pulling someone’s fingernails off isn’t as easy as it sounds.”
That is true; the tendons in my right hand and wrist feel stiff from hours of squeezing those pliers. I do this too often. Carpal tunnel issues are definitely in the cards for me down the line. If I live long enough.
The other patrolman is crying loudly and distractingly on his table a couple of feet away, his large gut wobbling with each high-pitched sob. He’s getting on my last fucking nerve.
Unlike his colleague, he didn’t make me work for the information I wanted from him at all.
I didn’t even have to touch him for words to start spilling out of him.
He pissed himself when I stepped close to him.
Naturally, I beat his face to an unrecognisable pulp.
The only thing I hate more than mustards who make me break a sweat to get them to talk is those who make it too easy.
I’d love to kill the loud one first to shut him up. But he’s way more afraid than the zombie. It’ll be worse for him to watch first. I usually work this way: the more afraid they are, the longer I make them wait.
When I’m doing Riley and that crybaby, I’m definitely making him watch.
Out of nowhere, violent nausea crashes through me, cold sweat erupting all over me.
I close my eyes, propping my arms against the edges of the table.
And I don’t know why the fuck I’d do that, especially right now, but I picture Riley on it, bound and naked.
But there’s no knife in my hand. Instead of a blade, I trace my fingers over her skin, caressing the curve of her hip.
There is no fear in her eyes. Just nervous anticipation.
And a breathless smile on her face as my hand makes its way between her legs.
I nearly black out as all the blood in my body rushes south. Fuck’s sake.
Over the past week, I’ve fucked more call girls than ever before in my life. But no matter how similar to Riley they look, I can’t shake her. And after yesterday? I’m done trying. There’s no point. I don’t want to fuck someone who looks like her. I want ... her.
My mind is now a fallout zone, contaminated with thoughts of her that have nothing to do with her betrayal, and everything to do with the way she touched me yesterday and the way her body visibly wanted me to touch her back.
I keep coming back to her little confession. Now that I know I could be the first man to ever give her pleasure, I can’t stop coming up with all the ways I could do that—all the ways I could make her feel things she can’t even imagine yet.
I need to snap out of this. Fast.
The zombie and his colleague are staring at me with confusion—or perhaps even hope—in their eyes.
Idiots. Do they think I had a change of heart? I never show mercy to mustards, ever. Nor to traitors.
I was going to kill them first. But now I’m just fucking angry. Angry at them for witnessing my moment of weakness and daring to interpret it as a reason to hope. Angry at Riley for being so good at pushing my buttons. And angry at myself most of all, for being so fucking weak.
Here’s the thing about anger: it always makes me crave screams.
I march to my bike underneath the wooden swing frame my men had built earlier, and I unzip my bag with a violent tug. Metal gleaming in the sun, I pull out two heavy-duty chains with hooks already attached at one end.
A few hours later, I yank the metal door open and hit the light switch. My boots disturb the gravel as I march towards Riley’s cell.
I hadn’t bothered to change, and I’m still wearing my mask, my clothes splattered with blood. Riley’s eyes go wide when she sees me. She gets up from the ground, stumbling, her body stiff from the cold and lack of exercise.
“Still not here to kill you, Hotshot,” I tell her as I unlock the cell door and step in.
The corners of her mouth twitch. Humour? Is she fucking amused?
“Here.” I throw her clothes at her.
She catches the bundle, her mouth a perfectly surprised ‘O’. I set her shoes on the ground.
“A fresh tableau,” I grunt as she pulls her T-shirt on. “I want you to take pictures of it.”
She freezes, her eyes wide.
“You mean outside? Y-you’re letting me go outside?” Her voice breaks, and something inside me tightens like a coil ready to snap.
“It’s easier than bringing the fucking tableau here, isn’t it?” I retort. “Move your ass, Hotshot.”
And what a pretty ass it is. Easily the best I’ve seen.
“Worried they’re going to walk away?” She cocks her eyebrow at me, fumbling with the stuck zipper of her trousers.
“No, but they might croak.”
“They’re still alive?”
“They were when I left them,” I confirm matter-of-factly. “What? Can’t handle that?”
Losing my patience, I drop to my knees in front of her and tug the zipper up, brushing against her skin—so fucking soft. I shoot back up to my feet fast like I’d burnt my hand.
“I’m a war photographer,” she reminds me, stepping into her shoes. “What do you think?”
“Then let’s go.” I guide her out of the cell door with my hand at the small of her back.
We walk the cave’s corridor in silence.
“Why would you do this?” she asks me when we reach the door, tilting her head back to look at me with a frown. “Why would you let me come outside and take pictures?”
I breathe sharply through my nose, my annoyance flaring.
“You don’t get to ask questions.”
Especially not ones I don’t know the answer to, I add in my head.
Maybe I just want the damn pictures. She’s possibly the best photographer alive.
Seems a waste not to get them while I can.
Maybe I want to let her taste a little bit of freedom just to snatch it away again—to stop her from getting too used to her captivity.
Maybe I’m just sick of the sight of her down here—pale, bruised and miserable. It’s not like it matters.
“This changes absolutely nothing,” I assure her.
“I didn’t think it would.” She shrugs, and my annoyance turns into a duller frustration.
She is too good at this dignity thing of hers. It’s hard to get a rise out of her. I now know that this vulnerable sincerity of hers is nothing but a camouflage. For nerves of fucking steel. It’s like she doesn’t know that everyone can be broken. Sooner or later, I will break her, too.
“Close your eyes. The light will be a lot at first.” I don’t know why I warn her before opening the door.
Lucky for her, she’s smart enough to obey me without fuss. I push the screeching door, and Riley lets out a choked noise when fresh air and sunlight reach her.
She’s doing as she was told and keeping her eyes shut, savouring each breath.
Impatient and strangely unsettled, I put my arm around her shoulders to lead her out. We step over the threshold, gravel giving in to the softer sand under our feet, and the smell of late spring all around us.
“You can open—” I don’t get to finish the sentence.
Riley slips from my hold and crashes to the ground, sobs racking her body. On her knees and bent forward, her forehead is nearly touching the ground, and she’s crying loudly into her hands.
It’s lucky that the courtyard is mostly empty. But Attila is near the roasting pit with a few other men, and he gives me a pointed look before returning his attention to the chickens slowly rotating over the fire.
“Come on, Hotshot. Get up,” I urge her. “Let’s go.”
I don’t really give a shit about the lengthening shadows and the dying light. I know she can work in any conditions. It doesn’t matter if it’s dark. But something fragile inside me is cracking at the sight of her monumental relief, knowing how temporary it is.
Mercy is nothing but a perversion of justice.
The right thing to do is to give people what they deserve.
But the thing about being fair is that sometimes you know you are being fair, but it doesn’t feel that way.
I’ve learnt over the years to ignore all such stupid feelings.
But fuck me, she is testing my resolve more than I’d like to admit.
“Hotshot.” I touch her shoulder, giving her a little shake. “Riley, let’s go.”
She doesn’t protest. With a final shudder, she rises slowly, wiping her face off. Her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed.
“Will you let me see Corrado? Please? Just to know he’s alive,” she pleads softly.
Her freckles stand out more in the bright light, and some of her tears are still caught in her lashes.
“No,” I reply automatically. “And don’t argue with me unless you want to go back inside.”
Her nostrils flare, but she lowers her eyes, not defying my will.
I’m no longer surprised by her refusal to fight me.
But sometimes I wish that she would. I resent the way she sees me: a heartless fanatic, not worth reasoning with.
I usually have to go out of my way to prove to people that’s exactly what I am.
None of them ever wants to believe it, begging and trying to appeal to whatever softer side they want to think I have.
But she’s not even giving me a chance to reject her, to crush her last shred of hope. She’s not letting me defeat her.