Page 48 of Retrograde

We reach the ruins and the smouldering campfire, the last few embers glowing in the dark. Lena has already gone to sleep, huddled in something that looks like sheepskin. Aron immediately lowers his voice to a whisper, stepping carefully to avoid any branches that could snap loudly underneath his boots. That’s how I know that whatever twisted ideas he was getting while carrying me over here, he has abandoned them in favour of not waking Lena up.

But I also know that my relief will be short-lived.

I’m not scared so much of what will happen when we’re alone again as of what I might want to happen.

Scared of my depraved curiosity, of how little it has to do with those dark, cold hours spent in the cell, with the hunger, the despair, the overpowering need for contact, my whole bleak outlook. It runs deeper than that.

Ever since the Necromancer first emerged, I have felt drawn to him like a moth to a flame, circling closer and closer. Blinded by the ominous glow of my own doom, unable to resist even as the air around me grew so hot it burnt my wings.

He earned his fame with his first tableau—the Pond—right after I let myself be recruited by Volker. Right after ... my betrayal. And long before he told me that the latter was the direct cause of the first, I knew on a subconscious level that he was coming for me.

I have always sensed a connection between us, cosmic and inevitable. Everything that’s happening, everything he’s doing to me, it feels like it’s already happened. Like my soul is just rediscovering its twisted destiny.

And the most fucked up part of all this is that on some level, it feels so right. Like finally getting an answer to a question I’ve been asking my whole life. Like finally coming home.

The air is much cooler than during the day, humid and fragrant with dew. It quickly dissolves my drunken haze, and reality crashes into me. I’ll be back in the cage tomorrow, and fresh air will be just a memory, perhaps never to be relived again.

Aron has brought two sleeping bags from the bike, unrolling them next to each other on the ground.

“What will happen to Corrado now that Lena’s vouched for us?” I ask him in a whisper.

A smirk plays on his face, his eyes burning into me beneath the sardonic crook of his brows.

“How do you know I haven’t killed him already?”

Salt stings at the back of my constricting throat, and I swallow heavily, hoping he’ll say more. He doesn’t.

“Lie down here,” he orders me instead, indicating one of the sleeping bags.

I do as I’m told, reminding myself for the millionth time that heads-on resistance will only get me hurt and achieve absolutely nothing, that I’m smarter than to let him provoke me into doing or saying something that he could then use against me.

Once I settle down next to him, both of us lying on our sides, facing each other, he moves so fast I barely register the click of metal before I look down to discover he’s cuffed my hand to his.

I open my mouth to ask him what the fuck, but he lays a finger on my mouth, silencing me. I barely resist the temptation to bite it. But then, completely out of nowhere, I picture taking it in my mouth to suck on it like I would on ...

What is wrong with me?

“Shh, don’t wake her up.” He jerks his head in Lena’s direction. “She needs her sleep.”

The worried lines around his eyes are a shock to me. I’ve been completely unprepared for the depth of empathy bleeding into his gaze. It makes me realise that others may know him as a completely different person. A man I’ll never meet. One who cares and protects. One who loves.

It’s like his shield of rage has fallen off, to reveal the person he was before. I’ve been noticing moments like these in him more often. Moments when it might still be possible to reach the man in the monster.

“Why the cuffs?”

“What do you think? No fucking way am I giving you a chance to bolt in the middle of the night. I have better things to do tomorrow than to look all over for you.” His voice is low and harsh, but there is a defensive note in his tone—like he’s compensating for a moment of weakness I shouldn’t have seen.

“Aron,” I address him instead of responding, so quietly that barely any sound slips past my lips. “This can’t go on forever.”

“This can go on however long I want it to,” he counters, all remnants of his earlier kindness gone. “Now shut up unless you want me to gag you.”

I have to bite my lip to stop a sob from clawing its way up my throat. Why do I feel like crying? It must be the alcohol.

My chin wobbles and my eyes well up.

And to make it worse, Aron sees it. He freezes in surprise at first. But then the clench of his jaw lets up, stern lines in his face smoothing away. And just for a heartbeat, it’s almost like his eyes reflect my own misery.

The sun is rising, and I’m thinking about the people on the other side of the Rift, seeing the new day dawn over those ominous craters.