Page 11 of Retrograde

Every cell in my male body is revolting against my wish to destroy her. I had to fight against my instincts like crazy just to slap her a few times, and that doesn’t even scratch the surface of what I want to do to her. Fuck, it’s going to be hard.

The worst part of it all is that blunt honesty of hers, that unpretentious dignity. She is cute as hell. I expected her to try to use that against me—and fuck me, it may have almost worked. But she didn’t. Instead, she reacted with the air of someone resigned to what’s about to happen to them. Not at all in defeat. More in the sense of “I know what I have done, and I will accept the consequences”.

Bad fucking idea. Anytime traitors manage to gain my respect—and she has come dangerously close—it makes me want to break more than just a few of their limbs. It makes me want to crush their spirits. And unfortunately for her, I’ll have no qualms about doing that. It’s only her beautiful body that’s a struggle.

I resist the impulse to drive my fist into the rock.

Thank fuck for that middle-aged crybaby she had with her. He’s a big lad. He’ll do for now. I can already tell he’ll work like a charm to keep her in line. She would have let me do anything to her without a word just so that I would stay off him. That tells me she’s loyal. Until she isn’t.

I groan, opening my eyes. I push myself off the wall, the uneven rock cutting into my back. I make my way to our headquarters. The courtyard is busy—men rushing about, some carrying crates of loot we seized during the raid, others cleaning their weapons. There are about a hundred of us, all men. None let me pass by unacknowledged; I’m met with furtive looks of awed fear or with nods of respect forged in blood, depending on each man’s station and experience. As their leader, it is my job to see them all as little more than pawns.

Attila, my second-in-command, crosses paths with me, limping slightly. His trousers are drenched in blood where a stray piece of shrapnel nicked his thigh.

“Need to get that little scratch taken care of?” I grasp his forearm in greeting.

“Nah. Bleeding’s almost stopped.”

I don’t contradict him. I’ve seen first-hand just how insanely much the human body can take before it breaks. I’ve tested those limits, I pushed them, and I stretched them beyond belief. Attila’s is only a superficial injury, nothing more.

“Where’d you put the crybaby?” I ask him. “Cave B?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “He kept asking us to swap with the bitch, let her be in the bigger cave. Says she’s claustrophobic.”

And just like that, I’m marginally less pissed off about everything. The corners of my mouth stretch in a nasty smile.

“She stays exactly where she is.”

Pain radiates from my knuckles, the impact jarring every bone in my fist. The ache rushes up my arm, the sensation quickly morphing into euphoria—into that primal, overpowering, addicting thrill of feeling completely in power.

The crybaby stumbles and screams, tears streaming down his stubbled face.

“Stop, please!” He raises his arms over his head, crouching in front of me with his back to the wall.

Fuck if I don’t love leaving them unbound. It’s always a bore if I have to tie them up. I only do that with the really spicy ones who’d fight me to death otherwise—a death I would gladly give them, if only dead men could still talk.

But men like Corrado are a treat. Big, strong cowards; the kind who have the strength of body but not the strength of mind to challenge me. Their pleading is like gasoline to my fire of rage.

“Why are you doing this? I’ve told you everything you asked!”

And so he has, the chatterbox. So far, he has shared with me what little he knew about the mustards’ predicted movements, his method of transferring files to Synechord via a rogue satellite out in the Mediterranean, and even the sob story of how he moved here from his part of the world for some woman who died. Real touching.

“Think of this as a baseline,” I taunt him. “If at any point you stop talking or if I get the feeling you’re lying to me, things will get drastically worse for you.”

He wails, blood dripping from his mouth. He looks up at me, squinting his eyes, angry bruises swelling rapidly around them.

“I’m not going to lie to you! We’re on your side! I’ll tell you everything I know!”

“Good.”

I relax and flex my wrist. Seeing my repose, he straightens up and wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“Who knew about you, that’s what I want to know. No way is this whole thing of yours a solo venture. If you’re for real, then someone from the resistance must have known. Who?”

He sighs heavily, then takes a deep, laborious breath. I can already tell he’s finally about to give me permission to beat him senseless. Anticipation zaps through me like electricity.

“Yes. One group. Need-to-know basis, of course.” As he speaks, his whole body begins tensing up, his expression growing more unhappy by the second. “The Hounds.”

Bullshit territory, here we come. Fucking finally.