Chapter 30: Taran

Four hours later and Diogo is still gone. I'm worried sick and pacing the floor round and round the table. Garrett hasn't moved from where he stationed himself at the door. His sharp eyes flick from the door to me as I move past. He hasn't tried to comfort me since Diogo left, hasn't said a word. Finally, I decide that pacing isn't doing any good and turn toward the stairs up to the roof. Just as I reach them though, Diogo comes through the entrance.
"Leave," he growls at Garrett, who immediately disappears through the still open door.
"Diogo!" I gasp, hurling toward him.
I stop short of throwing myself at him though. I'm still not so comfortable with him that I'm willing to initiate physical contact. I edge around him so I can look at him while he pulls off his rifle, unbuckles his weapons belt and drops it on the table. He's splattered in blood again, this time across his upper body and neck.
"Blood," I say dismally.
He doesn't look at me. He unclips his coat and shrugs out of it, draping it over the back of a chair. He bends to examine it, as though trying to decide how to get the blood out. Although, I'm starting to suspect this man knows how to deal with blood if the past week is anything to go by.
"Whose blood?" I demand, taking hold of his elbow and trying to turn him to face me.
He straightens to his full height and looks down at me. Standing this close, his icy demeaner separating us emotionally, he seems enormous. The muscles of his arm ripple as he flexes and looks down to where my fingers are uselessly tugging on him. Still he doesn't say anything to me, just eyes me with a gaze that feels like being stabbed by obsidian chips. After the intimacy we've shared I'd hoped for more.
"Zombie?" I persist, the word accidentally slipping out.
Out of respect, the people that are taken by the Primitive disease are known only as Primitives, but for years now, since the first outbreak, the urban legend swirling around the living is that they're zombies. The living dead. They have all of the characteristics. The flesh rots on their bones, their personalities are erased and replaced with mindless obsession, the driving hunger. And lastly, the ease in which the disease is passed from one person to the next through a bite.
"Don't say that word again," Diogo says coldly, stepping back, away from me.
It hurts that he won't touch me, won't talk to me. For two days he couldn't keep his hands off me, acted like a man that couldn't get enough. Yet now I get the distinct feeling he wants space.
"Is it primitive blood?" I persist.
"Why do you need to know so badly?" he asks sharply.
I stare at him. He's holding something back, something he doesn't want to tell me. That's why he's putting distance between us. "Diogo," I snap. "Whose fucking blood?"
"Human," he growls, his gaze dropping away.
My mouth falls open. He killed a human? But how? He went out with the intention of ridding the city of the Primitives. Now he's telling me a human was injured.
"One of your men?" I ask, gentling my voice. There's always a possibility when he and his men deploy that there might be loss of life. It can't be easy.
"Civilian," he answers, crushing my theory.
"How?" I cry.
"She was attacked, bitten." His voice is low, tired. "I had to put her down. It was kinder than leaving her to turn. I'm wearing her blood because I stayed with her through the end."
Shock courses through me. "Who was she?" I ask quietly.
"I don't know," he admits. "Someone from the slums. In the wrong place at the wrong time."
I hate his answer. It's too careless, doesn't hold enough account of the loss of individual life. It doesn't matter that he stopped long enough to see her death out to the end. He killed her. Killed a woman without a name. Maybe a friend. Maybe Emery. My gut twists at the thought of my dear friend dead.
"What did she look like? 50ish? Long gray hair. Curly. Blue eyes? Maybe wearing a knit hat." I ask hoarsely.
His eyes sharpen on me. "Who are you describing, Taran?" he demands.
"Just tell me!" I hiss angrily, curling my hands into fists.
"No, she wasn't the person you're describing. This woman was younger, blonde."
My shoulders slump in relief and I rub a hand over my face. I feel almost as exhausted as Diogo looks. I'm happy that the woman he killed isn't Emery, but the gulf between us seems to be growing as part of my heart remains in the slums with the city's poor, refugees and rebels.
"Don't," Diogo mirrors the same word he used right before Garrett interrupted us with news of the Primitive attack.
I shake my head and look at him sadly. "Even if I didn't know her, she was still human, Diogo. She was still a desperate woman in desperate circumstances that didn't deserve to die."
"I didn't attack her," he snaps, frowning at me.
"No, but you finished her," I say tiredly.
"I did what I had to do."
"Why did you have to do it?" I demand.
I know I'm not being totally reasonable. That we have to kill the Primitives before they can kill us, and that taking out a human who will most likely turn is more humane than leaving them to experience the gut-wrenching agony of having their body transform into the living dead. Once the transformation happens they'll still have to die. But logic has no place in my heart. I'm sickened by the idea of Primitives getting in the city, running amok through the slums, Diogo following close behind, cutting down the zombies and my friends alike.
He doesn't answer my question. Instead he watches me closely and says, "Why are you so upset, Taran? There are hundreds of thousands of people in this city. The likelihood of you knowing that woman is slim."
"What if it was me?" I finally cry out. "It easily could've been. I crawl and climb all over this city, but especially through the slums. I'm also particularly fond of the wall where they would've come in. They could've easily found me alone and attacked."
His expression softens to one of understanding and I almost hate him for it. I don't want his understanding. I want to know that we're going to be okay, that we might still have the future I was envisioning a few short hours ago.
"You will never be that vulnerable again, Taran," he tries to reassure me. "That'll never be you."
"You can't know that!" I snap, pacing back a few steps. "You can't predict everything. What happens if the city is overrun? If Garrett is attacked and taken down, and I'm left on my own to face a horde. What if I'm bitten?"
"Stop it," he says sharply, reaching for me.
I step back again. "Just tell me, would you kill me?"
"Taran!" He says my name sharply.
I want to ask him more questions, figure out what makes him tick. Figure out why I'm different to him. But he takes hold of my shoulders and kisses me, slanting his mouth over mine. At first, I think he's trying to shut me up, maybe punish me for badgering him with difficult questions, but then he's lifting me, crushing me against him, his hands roving over my back, up and under my shirt.
The feel of those broad hands against my skin is like a match to parchment. I come alive, my desperate need for him matching his for me. He lays me back on the table, tugging my arms over my head so he can reach down and drag my shirt up my torso, then up my arms and off my body. His lips find mine in another intense kiss while his fingers search out the buttons on my pants, fumbling them open before dragging the fabric down my legs.
He doesn't get undressed, doesn't explore my skin with his lips as he's been doing the past few days. He tears open his own jeans, drags me to the edge of the table, pushes my legs wide and slams into me. I gasp and reach blindly for his shoulders as his big body forges a path through my soft, slightly damp passage. I'm not nearly wet enough for this rough entry. Yet something about his desperation calls to me.
I lift my legs and bring my knees up, tucking them under his arms. I reach for him, beckoning him down to me. He drops his shoulders until I'm able to clutch them and pull myself up against him, fitting myself to his body and pressing my lips against his.
The touch of my mouth slows him down. He responds to the tentative thrust of my tongue, easing himself from my body before thrusting forward, his cock finding easier passage this time. Instead of pain I feel only pleasure as he fills me, sparking my nerve endings. Soon I'm writhing against him, bucking my hips in an effort to rub my clit against the thick hair of his groin. He realizes what I'm doing and presses me back against the table. Licking his fingers he reaches between our bodies and starts stroking my clit with hard, even strokes until I'm crying out on the table and gripping fistfuls of my own hair.
"Come for me, Taran," he growls.
"Yes, yes," I pant, undulating my hips in an attempt to take more of his cock, fill my body with more of the delicious pressure. "I want to come!"
"Now, baby, do it for me now."
His words are a powerful aphrodisiac that sizzles right through me, taking me over the edge. I cry out and arch my back, panting as I ride the crest of an orgasm. He takes his fingers from my clit, grips my hips and drags me just over the edge of the table, slamming his cock so deep into my body that I shriek and come again, exploding as he takes his own pleasure, fucking me until he's spent. Until his seed shoots deep into my body, bathing the walls of my vagina.
I've barely started to come down from the high of two incredible orgasms when he picks me up off the table, holds me tight against his chest and strides toward the bedroom. I murmur a weak protest at being moved that he completely ignores. After depositing me in the bed, he stands back and removes his own clothes. I watch greedily as he reveals a broad chest and shoulders, a trim waist and hard muscles.
"Stay here." He leaves the room, returning after a moment with an open can of peaches and a fork.
I smile happily. Despite my earlier angst, Diogo is back to treating me like his cherished wife. He seems to anticipate all my needs. He understands my need to eat more often than is strictly necessary. I'm still not used to having food at my disposal, I want it near all the time. Want my belly as full as I can get it.
As if reading my mind, he forks up a peach and guides it to my mouth, holding the can underneath to catch the excess juice. I bite into the sweet fruit, moaning as the delicious tang explodes on my tongue. I don't know if I'll ever get used to canned peaches or if they'll remain my favourite. Along with tomatoes, of course. Diogo slides in next to me on the bed, propping himself against our pillows and laying his head next to mine. He takes a big bite of peach and then feeds me next. I eat enthusiastically.
Finally, when the can is empty and we're both sated, he sets it aside and gathers me against his chest. I yawn sleepily, my eyes fluttering closed against his skin. He pets my head, running his fingers over my hair.
"Diogo?" I murmur, not opening my eyes.
His hand stills. "Yes?"
"Will you find out who she was? If she had any family?"
I wait anxiously for his answer, not lifting my head, not looking at his expression. Finally, he answers. "Yes, Taran, I'll find her."
"Thank you," I whisper, feeling safe once more.