Chapter 68: Taran

My jaw drops at his logic. Despite knowing how obsessed he is with me, living with it firsthand for weeks, I'm still stunned by the depth of his need to protect me. It's an awe-inspiring prospect, being the object of such deep obsessive focus.
He takes my hand in his and pulls me away from the edge of the rooftop toward the greenhouse. "Come, let's get you fed."
I'm okay with the change in subject. Diogo's fascination with me, while flattering, can also be uncomfortable.
"In the greenhouse?" I ask curiously when I realize where he's leading me.
"Wherever I want to feed you is where you'll eat."
I smile at his highhandedness and follow him into the greenhouse. I gasp in delight when I see the surprise he's set up for me. He pushed the shelves of plants to the side and set up a small table with two chairs. Candles light the shelves, casting a lovely glow across the indoor garden. I'm grinning by the time I reach the table. I pick up a rose, set between our two plates, and press it to my nose, inhaling the delicious fragrance. I can count on one hand the amount of times I've had the opportunity to smell as rose.
"Wow, Diogo, this is" I try to come up with the right word, "romantic."
He chuckles and holds a chair out for me. As I sit, he pushes it in and leans forward. "Wait until you've seen the meal. I had our top chef in Sanctuary cook for us this evening."
"We have a chef in Sanctuary?" Another glimpse into elite privilege. The very idea of a chef in the slums would be laughable.
Diogo picks a plate up off a shelf and sets it down in front of me, lifting the napkin from on top. I grin at the spread underneath, my fingers twitching to dig in. Somehow I find the willpower not to touch it until Diogo is seated across from me. He lifts the napkin from his plate and inhales the fragrant aroma drifting from our plates.
"Eat, baby, have your fill," he says.
I need no more invitation. I dive into my plate piled high with buttery, flaky biscuits, roast beef, shelled peas, potatoes and gravy. I want to ask him a dozen questions about the meal, but I'd choke on the mouthfuls of food I'm stuffing down my throat. Then something hits me, a question more important than the possibility of choking.
"Is there more?" The question comes out garbled and I have to take a swallow of the wine he kindly sets next to my plate as I lose any and all table manners in my bid to get as much of the delicious food in as possible before it disappears.
He smiles indulgently and retakes his seat, picking up his fork. "There's plenty left over. You may indulge yourself without fear."
Without fear.
Yes, I fear the lack of food on a visceral primitive level. I've known food shortage my entire life. The surplus I'm experiencing now is new to me. It's triggering something in me, a response to horde, to eat while the supplies last. This sobering thought slows me down. There are still plenty of people in this city that don't get enough to eat. Several families that I know personally who are getting less than usual since I've been removed from the rebellion.
"How is this food possible?" I ask him, forking another delicious bite into my mouth and savouring it despite the guilt I feel at not being able to share. "The beef, the cream for the gravy? Even the peas are new to me. Not part of the rations given out in the slums."
He sets his fork down and studies me, his dark eyes troubled. He knows where I'm headed with my line of questioning. Knows how I feel about the inequality in Sanctuary.
"You are aware that we have greenhouses in the city."
"Yes," I say patiently, also setting my fork down. "But you don't grow cows on vines, Warlord. I want to know where the beef came from. The only meat we received in the slums was either canned or freshly caught game, which was rare as we needed hunting passes to leave the city and your administration is notoriously stingy with the passes."
He's told me on multiple occasions that he wants my opinions, that he values my way of thinking. Well, this exact issue is one of the main things the rebels and the Authority disagree on.
"There is a small farm within the city. It raises different types of livestock." he admits, though I can tell this is not something he intended for me to discover. How did he think the beef roast was going to pass me by without an explanation?
"Where is this farm?" I ask, frowning. I've been all over this city. I would've noticed.
"Hidden."
"Because the elites don't want to share their precious meat with the rest of us." I glare at him accusingly.
"Is that really what you think, Taran?" he asks, an edge to his voice. I don't heed the warning though.
"You've always segregated yourselves, sitting over here in Sector One, taking the best of everything, doctors, food, shelter, while people die of starvation and sickness in the slums." I push myself away from the table, completely done with my food.
"I take a lot of argument from you, Taran, for the single reason that I respect your opinion. But I will not be treated disrespectfully. You will think about what you're saying instead of hurling childish rationale at me because you feel guilty."
"Excuse me?" I yell furiously. "I'm not guilty, you're the one in the wrong here! In all the years I've lived in Sector Thirteen I never once received beef in my rations."
"Why might that be?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet. "I have reasons for everything I do. Why was there a lack of meat in the slums? Or am I wrong about you, are you just a mouthpiece for the resistance with no real thoughts of your own? I'd thought better of you."
His insult stings but he's not entirely wrong. I'd jumped on my assumptions without a single thought toward the man I've spent weeks getting to know.
"I don't know what you're trying to say," I admit.
"I'm saying that I have reasons for everything I do, and that I want you to trust me. You don't have to agree or believe in my way of doing things, but you need to trust that I have my reasons."
"But I don't understand the rationale behind food shortages, behind the elites taking the best of everything and giving us the leftovers." I stomp away from the table, away from him, before I do something I'll regret, like hurl a plateful of food at his head. "Unless you're purposely trying to keep morale down."
"There are no food shortages," he says coldly.
"There are!" I can't contain the angry passion rising in my voice. "How can you not see your citizens starving to death right under your nose?"
"My citizens have no reason to starve because there is just as much food given to Sector Thirteen as there is to Sector One. The elites get the same food as everyone else."
"You're lying!" I snap.
"You know better, Taran. Why are there food shortages in the slums? Use your fucking head and then come find me. I'm done with this conversation." He strides past me and slams out of the greenhouse, an angry chirp following him out. I'd forgotten about Skye and her babies.
Tears fill my eyes and I slump back into my chair staring listlessly at the food in front of me. My appetite feels as though it'll never return.
"He's right," I whisper to no one in particular.
The food shortages are my fault. There would be plenty of food for all the people of Sector Thirteen if it wasn't overloaded with illegal refugees.