Chapter 63: Diogo

I say nothing. Just watch her as she struggles with herself, finally sitting back on her heels. She tucks a lock of hair impatiently behind her ear. She stares at the ground, tears still making wet paths down her face. After a few moments she finally collapses back onto her butt and pulls her knees up, hugging them. She still refuses to look at me.
"No I don't know. The rebellion will go on without me, and without without him." She swallows hard, unable to say Gunther's name. I bite back the jealousy rising up to ruin this moment. This epiphany she's about to have. "But they were my family when I had no family. The rebellion took me in, cared for me, nourished me and encouraged me. Not just him, but all of them. They embraced me and I embraced them back. They are the people that sit on the fringes of this city, that scavenge to survive. They aren't elite, and too often, they're illegal. But none of that mattered. I belonged to them."
"And I took you away." I move closer. I don't touch her, but I want to be close in case she needs me. Even if I'm the one to cause most of her grief, I'll still be the one to catch her when she falls.
She nods emphatically. "I was important, I meant something. But here" She drifts off, looking broken and lost.
"Here you are my wife," I remind her firmly.
"I don't want to be just a wife!" she snaps, swiping the tears away with a sleeve.
She's lashing out, trying to find a place for her grief. Despite my annoyance at her attitude, the way her sharp brain picks away at a problem she's creating in her head, I am happy to see her working her way out of the cloud of despair she buried herself in. Even if I must be the target.
"Your place with me is the most important thing in your life."
"Why?" she demands with a glare. "I don't cook your meals, I don't make your bed or ask you how your day was. All I am is the woman you fuck."
Her words are like a slap to the face, harsh and irrevocable. I lunge toward her, knocking her onto her back and caging her with my body. I know she's trying to throw off the unwanted grief invading her soul, but I can't help but take exception to the path her anger has wandered toward. I grab her flailing arms and pin them over her head, against the hot stone tiles. She gasps and arches her body against mine.
"Let me go!" she yells.
"You're pushing in a way you shouldn't, Taran."
"Fuck you!" she snarls recklessly. "The big, bad deadly Warlord is going to beat his wife? Fuck her into submission? Go ahead! That's all I'm good for now."
I check the urge to slam her against the stone rooftop until I've obliterated her words. Love is making me more dangerous than I'd ever imagined. Dangerous even to my wife. I close my eyes, trying to centre myself. Trying to remind myself that she's hurting inside. That she's lashing out in any way she can to get a reaction. To alleviate her pain.
Instead of hurting her, I drive the urge back, fist my hand in her hair and force her head up toward mine. "Do you want a fight?" I demand.
She glares at me, her light eyes flaring in fury. "Yes," she hisses.
I slam my lips over hers, knocking her back. I place my hand under her head before it hits the stone slab underneath her. She gasps into my mouth as I devour her. It takes her a few seconds to understand my attack. Once she does, once she recognizes it for the outlet that it is, she grips fistfuls of my shirt and drags me first toward her, and then pushes me away.
She fights me for supremacy, alternately trying to throw me away from her and then dragging me closer. Lust explodes through me, obliterating my good intentions. Her aggression clashes with mine, and my self-control slips. I tear her shirt from her body without a second thought, filling my hand with her small breast. She shrieks and then arches into me, encouraging my exploration.
She drags me down to her, wrapping her legs around my waist and clinging desperately. She grabs my hair and pulls, forcing my head sideways until she's able to sink her small teeth viciously into my ear. I growl aggressively at her rough handling, the adrenaline rushing hard through my system. I've never wanted to fuck my wife more than I do in this moment.
Apparently she's in the same mindset. She reaches between us, yanking on the button of my jeans until it pops open. She jerks the zipper down and reaches inside, filling her hand with my hot, ready flesh. Any thought of her injury leaves my head in this moment. The only thing I know is that my wife is laying underneath me, eager and ready to fuck.
I tear her pants away, the soft material ripping easily beneath my fists. Her flesh fills my hands, warm, soft, willing. Her wildly sweet and earthy scent fills my nostrils, driving me over the edge of sanity. There is no delicate wife, no more healing, no more grieving. Just Taran, the woman who has obsessed my every thought from before I even met her.
I drive into her, sparing only a second to note my relief that she is wet enough to take me. She screams her passion and fury, digging her nails into my shoulders and then dragging my shirt up, tearing a button in the process. I reach over my head, pulling the shirt from my body, giving her access. She sinks her sharp teeth into my pectoral muscle, just over my nipple, biting me with a vengeance that both hurts and exhilarates. My gentle wife is taking her anger out on me in the best possible way.
I grip the back of her head and force her face to my flesh, encouraging her terrible little bites, revelling in the pain because she is the one causing it. I would never allow any other person to do such a thing to me. Only Taran. Only my love. She can make me vulnerable, strike me low. And I will willingly allow her the opportunity.
As I surge into her body, over and over, driving through her tight, wet passage, I realize that I could die happily at her hand. If she were to hold a knife to my throat, whisper her love and slash me open, I would allow it. I would take it and revel in her power.
She bucks against my thrusts, throwing herself back at me, fighting me for dominance. She isn't just taking my lust, she's giving in equal measure, climbing toward her own orgasm. Her face is strained in concentration while her hands are buried in my flesh her nails drawing crescent moons.
I grip her face, forcing it back until her head touches the tiles beneath her. I hover over her, my lips inches over hers. "Come with me," I instruct her.
"Fuck," she gasps, her hips surging into mine, the heels of her feet digging into my ass as she desperately claws for the upper hand in our skirmish.
"Now, baby!" I snarl into her face and then swoop down to kiss her.
She has no choice but to accept my brutal kiss, the slam of my body into hers and the bruising grip of my hands on her flesh. Despite her bid for power, for dominance, I will never allow it. She will always take the submissive position. Behind me, beneath me. Protected.
The walls of her silken passage tighten around me, holding me captive. Squeezing, milking. I surge deep within her, unable to hold back. "Now!" I yell, my lips touching hers, my voice swallowed by her mouth.
We come together, exploding in a height we've not previously reached before, her nails sinking deep into my arms, my cock buried as far into her body as it can get. I jerk back, pumping into her again, bathing her with my come. An image of her pregnant body blazing through my mind. Chained to me by flesh and blood. Not discontent as she is now because a child will fill her mind and her time.
Still caging her in my arms, I hold her as she relaxes beneath me. She releases her sharp grip and drops her hands. I regret the loss of connection right away. I don't care if she draws blood, I'll always want her hands on me any way I can get them.
"I'm sorry, Diogo," she whispers, touching her own cheek her voice awash in sorrow. "I've been terrible, I know I have. I don't know why I'm feeling this way."
I know what she's feeling and why, but I don't voice my thoughts. Instead I gather her against me, holding her tighter. "Talk to me, baby."
The words come in a rush now, like she's been holding onto them for days, trying to find the right way to express herself, express the grief and pain that's been haunting her for a lifetime.
"I feel useless. Like I'm settling into this life that I used to despise and disparage without a second thought or single complaint. Like my friends are dying and being arrested but I'm seduced by hot water, sleeping with " She cuts herself off, glancing sideways at me guiltily.
"Sleeping with the enemy," I finish for her.
"Yes," she agrees softly, lifting her hand to trace my lips. "I'm sorry, Diogo. It sounds bad, but it's true. I used to stand for something. I was the Desert Wren, the woman that flouted authority and brought illegals into the city. Now what am I?"
"You are everything," I tell her.
She shakes her head. "I'm the wife of the Warlord. My power lies through you. I can't even leave our apartment without an escort."
I grip her chin and force her face to mine, chasing away her despair with a look. "You are my everything," I say again. "You are the future of Sanctuary, and that future needs protecting."
"I don't understand," she whispers, her voice catching. "How can I be the future of Sanctuary when I'm forced to abandon my people?"
I touch her head and run my knuckles over her cheek. "You're young, Taran, you don't need to rush toward understanding. Accept your life as it unfolds, and understanding will come. You are more important than you can imagine."
"As your wife?" she says stubbornly.
"As my wife," I acknowledge. "And so much more."