Page 56 of Retrograde

“What?” He frowns in confusion.

“Lead the men away when the bridge blows. Use the distraction.” My voice grows firm, emotionless, and it’s like I’m hearing myself from a distance.

Not waiting for a reply, I tear myself from the spot.

They’re not getting through, they’re not getting through, they’re not getting through ...

Skimming the sloping bank of the river, I run undetected, insects getting stuck on my sweaty face, my lungs searing. I’m so high on adrenaline, I doubt I would’ve noticed being shot.

They’re not getting through, they’re not getting through, they’re not getting through ...

I’m almost there, almost by the pillar. My boots disturb the water, splashing loudly, and I’m soon wading against the current.

They’re not getting through, they’re not getting through, they’re not getting through ...

Shouting voices. A few shots whistle over my head, bullets disturbing the calm surface.

The drumming in my ears gets louder. My head’s swimming.

Hiding from their aim behind the pillar, I yank the waterproof cover up and punch in the code. I set the countdown. One minute. They won’t be able to get here in time to stop it. I press the trigger button.

I don’t wait for the cover to click back in place. Turning around, I rush back, pushing through the water, crouching, trying to ignore the rattle of guns.

I make it to the bank and scramble up on all fours, sharp grass blades cutting my palms, feet slipping.

In the split second before the explosion, just a heartbeat before an inferno erupts behind me, I can already feel it coming—the air warming up and getting sucked backwards, the ominously loud silence.

Then the deafening noise of rock and metal wailing. The crackle of voracious flames eating everything in their path. Terrified, agonised screams of doomed men.

The ground destabilises, and I topple backwards. I fall, landing back in the water with a splash.

Debris rains over me. There’s ringing in my ears from the change in air pressure, and my vision goes black.

They’re coming for me. Even if I can’t see or hear them, I sense their presence, drawing nearer and nearer.

I can’t do a thing. I can’t move. But that doesn’t matter anymore.

Something flashes through my mind. Brown hair. Freckles. Rough words spoken in a sweet voice.

“Fuck you.”

I’m confused, disoriented.

But not for long. My skin tingles, and the darkness behind my eyes changes. I think I’m about to fall into that kind of sleep that you don’t wake up from.

About fucking time, too.

22

RILEY

For about the tenth time since I woke up, I wet my finger in my mouth and press it to my clit, circling the bud, putting pressure on it from the sides the same way I did when Aron guided my hand. There is some sensation, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, just sensitive. But it doesn’t come close to what he made me feel.

I’m craving more of the same the way drug addicts crave a fix, obsessively and relentlessly.

But I just can’t do it. Not without Aron’s firm body pressed against mine, without his voice in my ear, without his presence, so overwhelming that it drowns out everything else—my fear, my discomfort, the intrusive thoughts running through my mind on repeat.

I’m stupidly anxious for him to come back down here. And scared he won’t touch me again, that he only did what he did to show me what I was missing out on, to torment me.