Chapter 129: Diogo

"Talk to me, baby."
I'm damn near ready to get down on my knees and beg. It's been two weeks since I found Taran in that Sector Seven hovel. Two weeks since she's spoken to me. I'd taken her straight home where Doc Bishop did a full exam, stitched her up and examined the baby. She'd refused to look at me, refused to speak to me, refused to acknowledge my existence after our initial meeting.
She knows about Xavier, knows that I killed her ex-husband. I'm not sorry I did it, and if I could go back and make the choice again, I would make the same one. Xavier Gunther was a traitor to his city, he needed to die, and I needed him to do it quietly. But this is not a choice my wife can understand, not one she will ever be in the position to have to make, so I can understand her feelings. To an extent. But this cold war our marriage has turned into must end. I want my wife back.
I've tried talked to her about Gunther's death, explaining myself, giving her the opportunity to clear the air. No amount of explaining, apologizing or demanding can get her to budge on the issue. She is pissed off and not talking to me.
I now inhabit a home with a silent wife who has made it abundantly clear that she would move out if I let her. Of course, I won't. She belongs to me forever. Even if that means we spend the rest of our marriage never speaking to each other. At this point, I would welcome her vitriol, would enjoy her words of hatred and accusation if she would just open up and speak to me. Somehow she knows though that her words, any words, will be cherished. And so she gives me what she knows I hate, nothing. Not even an acknowledgement that I've spoken.
I've gotten so used to her silent condemnation that I'm almost shocked into silence myself when she whirls around from where she's standing in the baby room next to the cradle, her arms wrapped protectively around our son. "Don't ever call me baby!"
I raise a brow and hold a hand up. "I've always called you that, you didn't mind before."
She turns back to the crib, giving me her back. "Well, I mind now."
Her words seem to indicate dismissal, but this is the first time she's spoken to me in weeks. I'm not willing to let the topic go if it keeps her talking. I stalk toward her and turn her around to face me, a hand on her shoulder. Mindful of our son, I gentle my touch and my voice.
"Explain it to me."
She glares up at me, allowing me to see the fire in those grey steely depths. My patience is ebbing. I want to shake her, force her back to the way things were. We've never been given the opportunity to be a happy family, not with a city at war, but we found a deep and abiding love in each other. And though it's my action against Gunther causing the rift, I need her to find a way past it, a way to be happy with me. Because there is no other option. Happy, miserable, angry, sad, she's mine no matter what.
She blinks a few times and then pointedly looks at my hand on her arm, silently telling me to remove it. My fingers flex involuntarily and once more I am forced to shove my anger into a deeper, darker place. I will not treat my wife the way instinct is driving me to treat her. I've been taught to respond to reticence in a prisoner with aggressive, brutal tactics. I remind myself that Taran is not my prisoner, even if she acts like one.
When she realizes I have no intention of moving away until she speaks, she grits her teeth, baring them at me a little before saying, "Stryker called me baby before he died. I can't stomach the word now." Her voice wobbles a little on the last few words and I realize she's serious.
I'm frustrated all over again by Taran's silent treatment over the past weeks. I should've known this detail, should know all the details. If she won't talk to me, then how can I possibly understand the depth of damage Stryker did to her when he took her? If he hadn't died there, in that dingy little house where Taran was forced to give birth to Blaze, I would resurrect him and kill him all over again. I would make Gunther's death look like child's play in my quest for vengeance against the man that took and terrorized my wife, forced her to give birth to our child without the comfort of family and home nearby.
Not only did he take my wife, but he put her through hell. He terrorized her in a new way, one that will leave lasting scars on her psyche. I long to gather her against my chest, to run my hand down her smooth red hair and reassure her that I will scare away all of the ghosts. That I'll never let a bad thing happen to her again.
Of course, not only would she reject my assurances, but we would both know I would be lying. It's impossible to promise a future in such an unstable world. But Taran and Blaze give me reason to work harder than ever to ensure stability. To at least work toward giving them the world they deserve.
With that thought in mind I do what I do every day when Taran refuses to speak to me, to open up, I dig deep for patience. She's healing, both physically and mentally. As much as I'd like to, I can't force her to open up to me.
I sit in the rocking chair and I watch her. I watch the way the sunlight filters through the glass windows and casts shadows across her beautiful face, caressing each perfect feature. Her freckles stand out against her pale skin, across the tops of her cheeks and sprinkled over her nose. Her lips, the bottom slightly fuller than the top, curve in a partial smile she reserves specially for Blaze. A smile that she can't hold back, like a glow that bursts forth every time she looks down at him.
Her brow wrinkles a tiny bit telling me that as much as she wishes me gone, she's aware of my presence. We will always be this way with each other. There is too much chemistry, too much passion for her to ignore me entirely. This fact gives me hope. Because eventually I will lose patience, I will force her to accept me back in her life. There is no alternative. And she may end up hating me even more than she does now.
"We took in another 200 refugees this morning." I give her my daily update on the state of our Sanctuary. She may not be speaking but she's certainly listening. "Your sister is one hell of a negotiator. She's managed to weasel more out of me than anyone else ever has. Of course, she looks and sounds like you, so I'm more inclined to give her what she wants. Maybe she knows and that's why she pushes."
Taran doesn't say anything, but she inclines her head toward me, her subtle message that she's listening to my words. I've blocked access to her sister, another thing for her to be angry about. Skye is a born leader and has the potential to even further destabilize my marriage and if she puts her mind to it, my city. If she decides my wife isn't being treated fairly, she will become a thorn in my side. Work to get her sister out from under my care. I haven't told Skye the full truth of Taran's ordeal, partially because Taran hasn't told me herself, and because I don't need Skye breaking down the gates to my Sanctuary to get at her younger sister. She's enough of a handful on her own when she isn't pissed off. I suspect if she decides to go up against me, challenge my leadership, I'll have to put some real effort into keeping her in her place. Not something I want to do. Not right now, not with Taran's only surviving kin.
"She's getting impatient though, she wants to see you," I tell her, watching carefully for a reaction. "All you have to do is say the word."
My Taran has grown more stubborn than ever. We're deadlocked over the issue of her sister. I thought I could use Skye as a bargaining chip to get Taran to speak to me again, but she's proven herself more stubborn than that. As much as she wants to see Skye, she's angrier at me, not willing to give even an inch.
She sends me a small glare to reiterate her stubborn stance on the subject of her sister. I decide to move on.
"Within the city we're negotiating with any non-residents that were living here before the influx. They'll be given the opportunity to swear allegiance and apply for citizenship through the proper channels." Taran nods a little, telling me she's listening carefully. The fate of our Sanctuary's refugees are a topic near and dear to her heart. She spent years as the Desert Wren, a rebel hell-bent on saving the lives of everyone that asked for sanctuary, whether they were granted official documentation or not. "I feel bound to give Sanctuary to those actually living within the city first, before I offer it to the others coming in from the fallen Sanctuaries."
She comes to stand beside me, Blaze cradled securely in her arms. She stares at me pointedly until I move. I almost laugh out loud at her audacity, but keep it in. She's such a tiny little combatant. Her fiery anger would be almost cute if it weren't directed so firmly at me. If her anger weren't impacting the first weeks of our son's life.
As soon as I stand, she sits, taking the rocking chair I'd just warmed for her. She pulls the top of her shirt to the side, one of my collared shirts, and bares her nipple. Blaze hungrily sets about his supper as we watch him together. I share his hunger but for a much different reason. Her breasts are fuller now, begging for my touch. I long to worship my wife, explore the new curves that come with motherhood and kiss each new mark, memorizing her all over again.
When it became clear that Taran wasn't going to give an inch on her anger, I'd had no recourse but to go to the Doctor and make sure both she and Blaze were doing well. Bishop assures me that both mother and child are not only doing well, but exceeding expectations. Blaze has almost doubled in size in just a few short weeks. Taran has had her stitches out and is healing very well, all things considered. According to Bishop, the physical trauma she'd suffered after being taken by Stryker was normal for a woman who gave birth, and Taran was healing particularly well.
Perhaps it's my relief at her current condition that has made me more willing to give her leeway in her anger.
I watch my wife feed our son for a few minutes before I continue speaking. "The third greenhouse is finished and supplies are being shifted so we can get the planting done right away. Of course, pumping in water from the dam is another issue we'll have to deal with."
She looks up at me and opens her mouth, a comment on the efficiency of pumping water on her lips. I think she's almost ready to start talking again, but instead she shrugs and lapses back into silence. It doesn't seem to matter how big the issue, whether she has a solution or not, she refuses to talk to me. Every day my frustration grows. It's just a matter of time before it finally blows.
A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts. We both look up as Grayson opens the door and steps into the baby's room. His gaze immediately clocks his surroundings and the safety of his charges, lingering on Blaze. Everyone who meets this baby seems to develop a soft spot, including Taran's big immovable bodyguard.
"Your appointment is in twenty minutes." He directs the comment to Taran, giving me only a cursory nod. My wife's pique seems to have extended to her personal bodyguard, a somewhat amusing development. The only thing saving Grayson from a real ass chewing and a lesson in hierarchy is his utter devotion to Taran and Blaze.
"What appointment?" I demand.
Taran ignores me, leaving Grayson to answer the question.
"Bishop wants to see the baby," Grayson finally answers, his eyes on the wall behind Taran. He might have to speak to me because I'm his superior officer, but his real loyalty is becoming abundantly clear.
I frown. "I thought he saw the Doctor a few days ago."
Grayson becomes visibly uncomfortable. He shrugs and looks toward Taran for help. She stands and reaches for her bag containing everything Blaze needs while she's away from the apartment. "I'm ready," she says softly.
I growl and step in front of her, blocking her path to the door. Cool grey eyes meet mine and she cocks a brow, daring me to stop her.
"Explain," I demand.
She looks past my shoulder and nods at Grayson, as if giving him permission to speak. My man, my soldier. And my petite stubborn wife is giving him permission to speak to his superior officer. Real, unamused anger now beats at me.
As she steps away from me and pointedly stares at a wall, Grayson answers the question. "Blood testing."
Comprehension hits me like a brick to the head. Blaze is old enough that his blood can be drawn. Immunity to the Death Kiss can be determined and Taran decided to go ahead with the testing without even speaking to me. Pain and anger wars within me. She just took our cold war to another level.
I look down at her with hard eyes, and then take her arm, pulling her from the room as carefully as I can, aware of our son cradled in her arms. "I'll take them," I say to Grayson as we pass him. "You can provide backup."