Chapter 126: Taran

"Remember this room, Abri? You remember how much we loved picking out the little animals for Lilly?"
Stryker is sitting next to me on the bed, pointing out various aspects of the room he's created for the baby. I realize he's built an exact replica of his dead baby's room. If I weren't so utterly creeped out I might be more sympathetic. But, right in this moment, I'm not. If this birth doesn't happen seamlessly, both me and the baby could die right here in this horrible little room.
"Tell... tell me about her?" I ask through gasps, my arms banding my middle as it contracts.
The contractions are so close together that one is nearly indistinguishable from the next. I try to mitigate the terror by telling myself everything is going textbook the way Bishop assured me it would. I'm healthy, I'm strong and everything seems normal.
Stryker frowns down at me. "You want to know about Abrielle or Lilly?" he demands, his sharp eyes refocusing again. Shit. I keep trying to say the right thing but talking to him is like trying to avoid land mines. Yet, when I don't talk to him, he gets agitated.
"Tell me about our baby," I gasp, gritting my teeth through another wave. My hips are on fire and unbearable pressure is attacking my entire lower body, threatening to tear me right apart. "Please, Stryker, tell me about Lilly."
He grins suddenly and stands, pacing away from me. He runs a hand over the fine woodwork of the crib, touching his fingers through the animals carved into the headboard.
"She loves her mama," he says, his mind firmly entrenched in the past, his gaze far away. I lean painfully over, reaching down the side of the bed. I saw Stryker put a butcher knife on the floor next to the bed. I feel around for it as he talks, ignoring the tightening in my groin as the waves keep hitting. "Whenever she saw Abrielle she would light up and wiggle with happiness."
I touch the edge of the blade and feel my way carefully down the knife, reaching for the handle. Every muscle in my body feels terribly strained as I reach, but I can't stop now. I have to have a way to protect myself and the baby if Stryker snaps.
"What else does she like?" I ask softly, straightening and shoving the knife under the pillow next to me. Stryker found several house items from scavenging through this house and the ones surrounding it. He admitted that he found most of the baby stuff from other places, but he built the crib himself. I breathe through the dizziness swamping me as I straighten my body.
"She smiles and sometimes she laughs. Abi thinks she has gas, but I can tell when my little girl is looking at her daddy and smiling."
"That's beautiful," I murmur, settling my back against the pillows and pulling my legs up. "Stryker, honey, it's time for me to push now. I need you."
I'm not lying, either about thinking his story is beautiful, or that I need him. Finally, as the birth of my child approaches a wave of peace settles over me. There's nothing I can do now. I'm not an expert in psychology, I don't know what Stryker needs from me, and right now, I can't think about it. I have one task to concentrate on and that's where every last ounce of energy needs to be focused.
He runs his hand over my head, and I close my eyes, picturing the face of my husband. Of Diogo's broad hand running over me, soothing and calming me.
Stryker positions himself between my knees, pushing the skirt of my dress back. Tears of pain and terror leak from my eyes as I push.
"I can see the head, baby, keep pushing!"
I grunt, grip fistfuls of blanket and bear down, pushing with all my effort. My heart is racing and my face feels hot, each push makes me feel dizzier and dizzier. I haven't eaten yet today, haven't had enough water. What if something goes wrong? What if I hemorrhage? Oh god, I can't think about it.
The pain is unbearable. My screams rip through the room as I feel something tear in my vagina. I'm sobbing now, while Stryker remains concentrated, one hand on the inside of my thigh while the other guides the baby. I pull myself up on my hands at the same time as giving one last huge push. A godawful, painful tearing sensation grips me, then something sliding from my body. Wetness soaking the bed beneath me.
I'm dizzy and sobbing. I've never experienced anything so painful in my life. I don't know if I'm okay. My thighs are wet, the bed, the blankets, everything. Water, blood, afterbirth? I don't know.
I reach for my baby, now cradled in Stryker's massive hands. He has stolen this moment from me, from Diogo. I feel a powerful dislike for this man as I reach out and snap, "Give me the baby!"
He's frowning down at the infant. It's not crying and I'm gripped by panic as I fear something is wrong. Why isn't it crying? Aren't newborns supposed to cry?
"Stryker!" I yell, terrified.
He looks at me, his eyes wild and unfocused and deep frown penetrating between his brows. "It's a boy."
Then I realize the arms and legs are moving. He's alive. My baby is alive.
"Give him to me." I'm crying in earnest now, elated, frightened, horrified.
"It's a boy," he says again. "Lilly... she was a girl."
I realize what's wrong, why Stryker is just sitting, holding the baby, not moving. He's crashing back into reality, realizing that I am not his wife and this is not his baby. Despite the painful gripping sensation in my middle, I lunge for him, snatching the baby. I try to be careful as I grab my son, but he's slippery and nearly falls as I pull him to my chest. Stryker lets him go. Just sits staring at us, then around at the blood and gore from the birth.
"What have I done?" he whispers.
I swallow hard. This is what I was both afraid of and hopeful for.
"You helped me give birth," I tell him, reaching slowly under the pillow next to me and gripping the knife. The one I'd told him was meant for the umbilical cord. He seems to have forgotten about it. I slide it out cautiously while holding my tiny son against the now soaked front of my dress.
He shakes his big grizzled head. "No... he won't see it that way. I'm finished." His voice is filled with despair and tears glitter in his crystal-clear blue eyes.
I look down at my baby for the first time, terrified of what I'll see. But he's perfect. Tiny, red, his face screwed up as though he wants to cry but can't. I realize I need to clear his mouth. Maybe he has some mucus or something in there. But I'm afraid to move, afraid to draw Stryker's focus.
Stryker stands abruptly and reaches down to touch me, his fingers moving the sweaty hair from my forehead. His eyes are sharp and intense, his delusional world having vanished for now. I shake, staring up at him open-mouthed. He can do so much damage if he wants. I've never in my life been this vulnerable.
He slides his hand down my shoulder toward my wrist. I realize he's reaching for the knife and I swing it out, intent on threatening him to get him to step away from me and the baby. But he doesn't try to take it away from me. Instead he leans over me and brings my hand up with the knife in it.
"No!" I yell, my voice already hoarse from screaming during the birth. I flinch expecting to feel the bite of the blade as he kills me.
He holds it still between us, inches from my son's face. His eyes are intent on me and for the first time I see a completely different emotion in them. Pity. He pities me. "He doesn't deserve you," Stryker growls. "He doesn't know how to love you the way you need to be loved."
"Stop this," I sob. "You don't have to do this, Stryker."
"I do, I need to be with Abi and Lilly now," he says and then points the blade at his own chest and thrusts.
I scream again and try to jump away as blood gushes from the wound. He's too strong though, even wounded, his grip is unbreakable. His expression doesn't change. He watches my face as the light slowly fades from his eyes.
"Taran," he gasps my name.
"Stryker," I sob, my mind spinning. I wanted to be free of him, but I didn't want this. I didn't want more death. He was confused, living a different reality. He didn't deserve this.
"You're in love with a monster." His words are slow and slurred, it takes me a moment to understand what he's saying. "A... a murderer. He k-killed your husband."
My mind whirls as I try to follow, finally landing on who he could possibly mean. "Xavier? Do you mean Xavier?"
"Yes."
"But Xavier died in the desert," I protest, but Stryker is already shaking his head.
"Died in the jail, stabbed through the heart. Same as me," he chuckles at himself, then he looks at me, his eyes penetrating mine. "I cleaned up the body myself. Diogo... got rid of him. Didn't want... a... martyr."
With the last word he slides from the bed, his hand finally releasing mine, the knife sticking out of his chest. I stare at him as his eyes fade and the lines of his face smooth out. Dead.
As Stryker takes his final breath my son lets out his first cry.