Chapter 60: Taran

"Blood."
My heart leaps into my throat as Diogo strides through the door. He ignores me and continues through to the bedroom, peeling his clothes off as he goes. Grayson tacitly leaves while I trail after Diogo, picking up the clothes off the ground and holding them gingerly, not wanting to touch the blood. I heave a sigh of relief when his magnificent, uninjured body is revealed. Not his blood.
And as always, my next thought it to wonder whose blood has soaked his uniform this time. What poor soul has died so that Sanctuary might go on?
I won't ask him though. We've had this argument, and I don't want the answer. Can't handle the answer. The death surrounding Diogo's job builds a wall between us. I understand the necessity of what he does but I still think he can do so much more to prevent individual persecution. I follow him wordlessly as he goes into the bathroom and turns the shower on. He stands, waiting for the water to heat, his magnificent body bare to me. His arms are crossed over his chest, his legs spread.
He finally lifts his eyes to mine, allowing me to read him. I see nothing. Not pain, not elation, just the constant death that is a part of his world.
"Diogo," I whisper, stepping closer to him.
He narrows his eyes. "Don't." Then he gets into the shower, shutting me out.
I debate with myself. He clearly wants space. He always wants space after a hard day. No, I'm lying to myself. He wants space after he's had to kill someone. He doesn't want to drag me into that side of his job, but he needs to know that I'm here, even if he just needs a hug after he's had to do something he'd rather not.
I drop his pile of clothes on the floor and step up to the shower and into his view. He turns his head from the spray, water droplets dripping from his hair roughened chin. He wipes a hand over his face and then pins me with his stare, the irises so dark they blend with his pupils. I reach for the buttons on my shirt. His shirt, because the collar is high enough to cover most of my bandage, and my long hair does the rest. His eyes follow the path of my fingers as I nimbly work my way through each button, parting the fabric and allowing the shirt to fall at my feet. I reach for my pants curling my fingers in the soft fabric.
"Taran." He says my name like a warning.
"Diogo," I say back, but use his name in a soft caress. I push my pants down my legs, dragging my shoes and socks off too. I straighten, standing before him completely naked except for a bandage and the hair swirling around my shoulders.
"If you get in here with me I'm going to want to fuck you, and you haven't healed enough yet."
My opinion of how much I've healed is definitely different from his. I'd climb him like a wall and jump that hard cock in a heartbeat if he let me. But even in his currently aroused state I know he won't fuck me as long as he thinks I need more time to heal.
I shrug. "Then don't fuck me, Diogo."
I step into the shower, right into the spray and up to him. He stiffens, his body growing rigid next to mine. I look up at him through the hot water pouring over my head and face, blinking the droplets from my eyes. His face is stony, set in grim lines. The careful control he always exhibits is there, but I sense how close to the edge he is. I'd expected a reaction from him, but he doesn't so much as blink as he stares down at me with those cool, bottomless eyes.
I didn't think this through. What if he rejects me? I'm about to mutter an apology, step back and flee when he reaches out, grabs my arm and drags me against him.
The move is so swift, so sudden that I stumble and grab his arms to steady myself, my fingers curling around his biceps. Water pours down my back and over my head. I try to wiggle out of the direct path of the spray, but his hands tighten around me, holding me still, holding me against him.
My heart hammers, part in fear and part arousal. Diogo is always an intense man, with forceful thoughts and actions. But when he looks at me like this, holds me like this, I feel like we're strangers. Like he's purposely distancing himself from everyone, including me and he doesn't know how to build a bridge.
I stand on my toes, leaning into him so my face it out of the water and I say, "Let me in."
His hands tighten around my waist and he drags me up his body until I'm on my toes. His hold is tight but not hurtful and I know my Diogo is still in there, despite the death he's seen. His cock is between us, standing up, pressed against my belly.
"You shouldn't be here, Taran. I need time alone."
"Why?" I demand. Despite his words, I can feel the desperation in his hold. He wants me close but doesn't know how to accept me in his darkest moment, into his darkest thoughts and memories.
"I'm a monster." The words are soft, his voice emotionless. "I kill without remorse. I'm no better than a Primitive."
I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, tugging his head down until we're inches apart. He allows the move, his hands falling to my waist, holding me physically while still holding back emotionally. The distance is still there, but he's trying to breach it, accepting my comfort, giving me some of his thoughts.
"If you were a remorseless monster then it wouldn't bother you to kill. But I've seen your eyes when you come home, you're haunted by what you've done."
He drags a hand from my waist to my hip and then up my back, caressing each curve until he's touching my face, drawing his thumb over my lips and across my cheek. I shiver at his soft, sensual touch that contrasts with the hot water pounding against my back.
"You're beautiful to think that, but you're wrong." He pushes his fingers into the wet strands of my hair and grips it tight. "I'm not haunted by the kill, I'm haunted by my reaction to the kill."
It takes a moment for his words to sink in and then I realize what he means. He enjoys hunting, enjoys the kill.
I don't want to hear anymore. I'd rather live with my version of Diogo than the terrifying truth. A truth that I saw out in the desert when I watched him kill that Primitive. When he stood over me, her dead body at my side. I try to pull his face down to mine, try to smash his words under a kiss, but he stops me, his grip on my hair becoming painful as he forces me still.
"I enjoy killing, Taran," he tells me in a low growl his eyes lighting with a dark fever. "At first, as a child, I despised it. Hated when my father would put yet another Primitive in front of me, forcing me to stab them in the heart then take their heads off. Then, as I grew, as the kills came closer and closer together, I grew numb. Distanced myself from an action I thought necessary. And now now, when too much time passes between kills, I grow restless. I crave the blood."
My heart is hammering so hard I'm becoming dizzy. I shouldn't have followed him in here. This isn't the Diogo I've spent weeks getting to know. This is the Warlord who took me because he wanted me. He once called me his perfect conscience and I begin to understand why. I'm the woman who worries over each death, who forces him to think about every kill. The responsibility suddenly feels crushing.
"I want out," I tell him.
"No. You wanted to be close to me, to see the monster. Well, here he is." His lips take mine in a rough kiss. A kiss meant to punish me for daring to try to understand, to soothe the monster who loves to kill. There is no desperation or even passion in this kiss. He breaks me down, forces my submission as he steals my breath, hard hands pinning me against an even harder body.
Tears gather in my eyes and any passion I might have felt flees. I'm lost in the haze of his darkness and cruelty. Memories of the Warlord I grew up fearing and hating flood through me. I'm disgusted, frightened, confused. I want my husband back and this man gone. But most of all, I want to rewind the last ten minutes. I want to go to the roof while he showers away his demons. I don't want to know what I know about him. Because loving a man like this is a terrifying responsibility.
As if reading my thoughts, he drops his head into the crook of my neck, kissing the now soaked bandage over the bite mark. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against me.
His apology snaps me back into the moment and chases away the chill his words and kiss caused. I can feel his sincerity. And though it takes a moment for me to calm my rapidly beating heart I still want to reward him for apologizing, for not carrying his punishing kiss further. I wrap both of my arms around his neck. "Don't do it again, and you have nothing to be sorry about, my darling."
He leans back, searching my face, a sad smile curving his lips. "You've never called me that before."
I shrug self-consciously, my gaze sliding away from him. "It's old-fashioned."
He taps my chin, forcing me to look up again. "From now on you will always call me ‘my darling.'"
I laugh. "You can't demand an endearment, they need to come naturally."
He stares at me with a raised brow, all former darkness lost from his countenance.
I laugh again, knowing what he's waiting for. He squeezes my ribs, tickling me until I relent. "Fine! Endearments need to come natural, my darling."
"Then make them natural." He kisses the tip of my nose and gives me a satisfied look. He steps back, breaking the tight hold he had on me, that we had on each other. "Come, let's go to bed."
"You always want to go to bed when I'm ready to get up," I grumble, stepping out of the shower and submitting to a vigorous towelling.
"And you need more sleep than you think, my wife." He dries himself off and then walks me into the bedroom and pushes me down onto the bed.
He crawls in behind me and tucks me against his side, forcing my head to his chest. I snuggle in, finding a comfy spot. I close my eyes. As annoying as his assumption is, he's right. I do seem to need more sleep. As though I've spent years living in an adrenaline-fuelled rush, heading from one mission to the next, never getting quite enough sleep.
I'm about to drift into oblivion when his voice rouses me.
"You know I would do anything for you."
I frown and tip my head to look at his face. His expression is unreadable.
"I know," I say quietly. "What is this about?"
"Even the things you won't thank me for, might even come to despise me for." He persists, ignoring my question.
I nod solemnly. "I know, Diogo."
"We went into the desert to retrieve the Primitive that attacked you." His eyes are on me, serious and dark.
"You found her?"
"Yes. We brought her back for Doc Bishop to examine." There's something else. Something I'm missing. His eyes are roving my features searching for reaction, but I don't understand for what. "We found another body out there."
Suddenly my throat tightens, and I know what he's going to say. "Don't," I whisper, trying to roll away from him, put distance between me and the truth of what he's about to say.
"Xavier Gunther."