Page 112 of Retrograde

“Water! Give me some water,” I bark at the others as soon as I slam the car door shut and we jerk forward, followed closely by Volker’s convoy.

A bottle is handed to me. I unscrew the top and offer it to Riley, but she’s staring right past me, not reacting. I gently press the opening to her cracked lips, forcing her to take a few sips.

For the first part of the journey, she stays rigid and motionless on my lap, hardly breathing, her face buried in the crook of my neck. But right around the time we leave Everrise, she stirs, and then she starts wailing, her voice raw and broken.

I have not known true pain until hearing the sound, helpless rage carving my chest out. Words jam in my throat.

She claws at her clothes, the unformed desperation morphing into something more solid.

“What is it, sweetheart? What do you need?”

“Clean clothes,” she mouths, face contorted. “I need clean clothes!” she repeats urgently.

She’s in no state to be argued with, already trying to pull her T-shirt off clumsily with shaking hands.

“All of you assholes, keep your eyes for yourselves or I’ll fucking blind you,” I address Krane and the men, letting all my wrath bleed into my tone. Riley flinches and squeezes her eyes shut, recoiling from me.

“Not you, sweetheart. I wasn’t talking to you. You don’t have to be scared of me ever again.”

Hoisting her up lightly, I untie the black robes I’m wearing. I have trousers on underneath. Turning her to the side, so that if anyone’s stupid enough to look, they’ll only see her back, I help her take her T-shirt and bra off. I let the robes slip over her head and then peel her trousers and panties from underneath before fastening the belt around her waist. She’s drowning in it, but she settles in the clean fabric, calming down.

I nestle her against my shoulder, offering her more water in intervals. Her eyes stay open but vacant. She’s looking out of the window, not seeing a thing.

Breaking my heart every passing minute.

Like I fucking deserve.

42

RILEY

The journey to the coast is a blur. My senses are alert, but my mind is too overwhelmed to process anything.

A bay marina. A boarded-up restaurant, an old relic from when this place was a tourist haven. Seagulls screeching, water lapping against the shoreline. Smell of salt and rot in the air.

Aron carrying me out of the car. Shouting and confused voices. Aron threatening people, his muscles clenching. Cold dread detonating in my chest. My heart, galloping away underneath his fingertips.

“Not you, Riley. I don’t mean you.”

His words register, but their meaning does not.

We pass Daria on the gangway—that pulls me out of my stupor. She is being dragged out by two men in black balaclavas. Her eyes meet mine in a flash of green. She winks at me, like she still thinks it might all work out in her favour somehow. Her lips curl in a faint grin.

“Aron.” A pot-bellied, bearded man who smells like fish and sweat greets us on board.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Aron tells him.

The man dismisses him with a simple “Don’t mention it. You saved my life more times than I can count.”

A stampede of feet, people—crew and passengers—rushing across the deck.

And then, before I know it, the cabin door shuts behind us. The boat pushes off the shore, swaying lightly on the waves.

The cabin is small and cramped, but comfortable. There’s plenty of light from the big, round window—that’s all I need. There’s a chest of drawers with fresh clothes, and bottles of water and sandwiches arranged on top, alongside fake documents and some money.

“Alright.” Still holding me in his arms, Aron turns on the spot a few times, like he’s unsure what to do. “Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart, how about that?”

My stomach turns, fear coiling inside me, twisting tighter and tighter. I can’t take any more. Any more pain, any more suffering, any more fear. And definitely not any more uncertainty. I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.