28. Riley
RILEY
Before I know what’s happening, I find myself thrown over Aron’s shoulder, his clavicle pressing into my abdomen, and his proximity invading my senses as well as my thoughts.
I’m still reeling from what I’ve just witnessed.
Rimmed by the circle of onlookers, the cave courtyard became a fighting pit.
Dust rose from the ground as the two men circled each other in the centre like predators, their postures speaking to years of fighting experience, their eyes locked on the opponent’s with the promise of carnage.
Aron was still shirtless, light and shadow playing across his sculpted chest, veins outlined on his arms and pulsing with adrenaline.
Even without his skull mask, he managed to look less like a human being and more like a god of death come to collect a damned soul.
I’m stuck in a loop, trying and failing to understand his actions.
He didn’t seem to care about what Attila did to me at all, only to then mutilate him for life.
He took what he wanted from me like he would die if he didn’t, only to then treat me like I’m nothing but his property.
I don’t know what makes me angrier: the speed with which these glimpses of caring about me disappear, or the ferocity with which I want them to stay.
I pummel his back with my fists, insisting on being set down. Unsurprisingly, this only amuses him. But then a round-faced man approaches us, and Aron’s body tenses underneath me like with a flick of a switch, stress that is otherwise invisible rolling off him in waves.
His breathing grows shallower with each word they exchange about the approaching offensive and the Reprobates’ reappearance.
His anxiety stirs an unwelcome blend of feelings inside me; uneasy compassion, shock at this unlikely proof of his vulnerability, but mostly the compulsion to soothe him.
I stop struggling and run my fingers up and down his back.
Apprehension twists in my belly. Because wanting a man is one thing.
Wanting to comfort him is another. And way scarier.
I stay still until the two men agree to meet later. Meanwhile, the courtyard descends into chaos, men scrambling around, tensions running high. Aron carries me over to the rickety metal ladder fixed to the cave’s wall by sheer will rather than by the worn-out, rusty anchor bolts.
“Put me down!” I scream when it becomes clear he intends to climb up with me still thrown over his shoulder. “Please!”
“Oh, what the hell.” Against all expectations, he does. “Since you said please.”
If it weren’t for that moment earlier, I would have never noticed the worried lines around his eyes and the edge in his voice. I would have thought that maybe he was being ... kind? But I can see now that he’s just worn out and too preoccupied to enjoy tormenting me. He didn’t give in. He gave up.
Not that I care. There’s no reason why it should matter to me. It makes absolutely no difference.
We climb up and then enter what has to be the most unique living space I’ve ever seen.
Man-made brick and natural rock walls fuse together to form a large room and an adjacent bathroom.
The floor is wood, scratched and worn out, speaking to a long history of inhabitants.
Clearly, there is some sort of plumbing and even electricity, judging by the few lamps.
A bed with army pillows and a few blankets.
A hammock, a small fridge and a kitchenette featuring a portable burner.
A small table with a single chair. No heating.
Even though there are absolutely no frills or decorations, the dim light and natural materials make it cosy.
It’s technically still a cave, but it doesn’t trigger my claustrophobia.
“You can take the bed,” Aron murmurs, not looking at me. “I sleep in the hammock half the time anyway. Old army habits.”
“Oh.” I push a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Alright.”
Why do I feel so put out by this? Why or even how would I protest this? But Aron, I expected to share a bed ... Ridiculous!
“Aron, what am I now? Am I still your prisoner?” My heart speeds up, and I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
“Wouldn’t be my first choice of a word.” He smirks. “You can’t leave if that’s what you’re asking. And you have to do as you’re told unless you’re craving a punishment.”
Recollections of the cage rush in; the rough walls pressing in on me, the moist smell, the cold. I shudder.
“What will happen to Attila?” I ask to change the subject.
The dresser creaks when Aron pulls out a drawer to grab a fresh black T-shirt.
“Exile. I’ll have him shipped off to one of the neutral Mediterranean islands.”
And he says that like it’s nothing!
There’s no easy way out of the Continuum.
For “state security reasons”, there have been no commercial flights chartered ever since Rift Day.
The Rift to the west cannot be traversed on land, and to the east, borders are closed due to vague reports of hostilities.
Having photographed a few completely staged conflicts in that area, I suspect these are all fake.
All coastal areas—all the way to the Rift—are controlled by the Continuum.
Officially, a few simple permits are all that’s needed for sea travel.
Unofficially, these never materialise. The heavily monitored social media is full of pictures of vacationers and yacht owners, and whilst that seems to satisfy most ordinary people, those in higher political circles openly joke that all these are fake.
I’ve heard of smugglers operating from the Rifterland coast. Everyone has. But it’s hard to find someone who’s the real deal. The majority are undercover police, there to catch people trying to emigrate.
“That sounds very risky,” I point out.
“I know a reliable guy. An old mate from the army. Already shipped a few people away through him.”
I stare at him open-mouthed as he tugs the shirt over his head. It’s only when he returns my glare that the weight of his words registers.
“You could have gotten out. You could have gotten your men out.”
The bed mattress sinks under his weight as he sits down.
“I have gotten some of my men out,” he says. “All those who wanted out. That’s why Retrograde does better than any other group. No man is here because he has no other choice.”
I exhale sharply, robbed of my words, a soaring sensation in my chest that I promptly recognise as respect.
No man is here because he has no other choice.
One sentence is all I needed for the Retrogrades to go from barbarian fanatics to heroes in my mind, my newfound admiration overwhelming.
They’re all here because freedom matters more to them than survival.
I’m here because I never stopped to think which meant more to me. What would I have chosen if I had?
Aron pats the space next to him on the bed. I try to ignore the flutter low in my belly as I sit, close enough to feel his body’s heat.
“Do you know where you are in your cycle?” he asks, and I blink in surprise.
“No idea. Why?”
“I came inside you,” he replies simply, his tone mild but serious. “The second time. I wasn’t planning to, but ... fuck, Riley, it felt so fucking good I just couldn’t stop myself.”
Not only does he give me a guilty look, but a faint blush spreads through his cheeks. Seeing that I’m still lost, he elaborates. “What I want to know is how high the chances are of you getting pregnant ...”
“Oh! Right. Zero,” I assure him. “I was two hours out on Rift Day. Downwind. Shooting the aftermath of some random raid. I may have seen a flash of light at some point and later heard a strange boom. I just thought a storm was coming. I had no clue what had happened until hours later.” I push away memories of the strange smell in the air, so faint I might have just made it up in retrospect.
“Not enough radiation to do me any immediate harm, but enough to raise concerns about the quality of my eggs.”
He inhales heavily through the nose, straightening up. “Mandatory tubal ligation?”
“Yup.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and the compassion that bleeds into his voice catches me completely off guard.
“Don’t be. It saved me the trouble of getting approved for the voluntary one.”
He only raises his eyebrows with an unvoiced question.
“I live for what I do. Reporting. Showing people the reality they wouldn’t get to see otherwise. Showing them the reality they’re forbidden from seeing whenever I get the chance.” I pause, expecting a retort from him.
When it doesn’t come, I continue, bothering the pocket zipper on my trousers. “I’ve seen too much of the world to bring a child into it. I could see myself adopting one, though, one day. If the circumstances are right.”
I chance a look at him, but his face is unreadable. Just when I think he won’t respond at all, he drawls slowly, “A thing like that to say. And it fucking came out of you.”
“Ever the flatterer.”
I’m leaning towards him, my skin tingling, my senses overwhelmed with his proximity, his male scent, the heat of his body, the smouldering look in his eyes. I’m craving his touch, relentlessly, the way I’d crave something warm on a freezing day.
But all such thoughts evaporate from my mind when he says in a firm, detached tone of voice, “I want you to tell me about the day.”
“What day?” I ask even though I already know; I’m just buying time.
“The day you turned coat,” he confirms my fear, and everything inside me freezes.