Chapter 11: Diogo
The building has rattled her, but she's quick to shutter her expression as I guide her through my home on the top floor of what used to be One South Church, now known as the Tower, the tallest building in Sanctuary. I made it my home when I became leader. A symbol of strength and power. I prefer to live up high, away from the daily stresses of my people. I don't share the Tower with many except for a few of my security men who reside on lower floors. The rest of the building is left empty. I enjoy the solitude.
Except now I've brought home an urchin. She walks toward the window and gazes out at the dazzling view of the city. She's quiet as she studies the panorama. I doubt she's ever seen anything this spectacular. But she gives me nothing in either expression or words. I feel disappointed. I expected more from her. Perhaps the grime on her face is covering the emotion I wish to see.
"Home," I say. I want her to feel the moment. Feel our shared Sanctuary and the building.
"No," she replies quietly, without turning. "This is not my home. Home was with the people I loved."
I feel a rush of anger at her words. She doesn't belong to anyone but me. I don't want her pining for lost love. I want her to settle into her new home. Perhaps it's an unreasonable expectation considering how quickly I've come into her life and forced change. But in an uncertain world, with death lingering around every corner, we must seize opportunities when they arise.
"Come," I say sharply. "I'll show you where you can wash."
She drags her feet as I pull her through the apartment. It's large, but not built like a regular home. It was originally an office building, but I had this floor gutted until it was just concrete and my meagre belongings. I added in the essentials for living. A washroom and a kitchen. But left the rest bare.
"I don't want to shower," she grumbles.
"Nonetheless, you will." My voice is uncompromising. It's best for her to learn obedience quickly and easily so she doesn't have to learn my methods of obtaining obedience.
"I won't," she insists stubbornly.
I stop in front of a chest of drawers, open one and thrust a towel at her. I wave her toward the washroom, and when she refuses to go, I give her a small push. When still she resists, I say calmly, "If you don't do as I say then I will strip you and wash you myself. The process will not be dignified and I will not be kind or gentle. Your choice, Taran."
A shiver runs through her body, she stares a second longer defiance warring with fear, then quickly turns away to comply. Perhaps she is learning that I'm a man of my word. I would've done exactly as I described if she'd hesitated any longer. A part of me almost wishes she hadn't disappeared so quickly into the washroom. Those quick flashes of chest I'd glimpsed throughout the day were intriguing.
I stifle the feeling. She may be too young for that wayward thought. She's so small, her body doesn't seem fully formed. Perhaps mid-to-late teens. But her intellect, her reasoning, though flawed, is complete and well thought out. Not the musings of a child. And Gillert had suggested she was the same last time they met, three years ago. Though, it wouldn't matter if she was young, women are wed early in Sanctuary to give them a better chance of producing healthy, strong children.
It occurs to me that Taran could be married. Probably is married. This makes me unaccountably angry. I want to murder her husband, if she has one. I hadn't originally thought to bring her here to install her as my mistress, or my wife. My intention was just to have her near for a while. But now, the more I think about her, the more the idea feels right.
I can hear the shower running now and I wonder what she's thinking. Is she afraid? Does she think I'll rape her? I admit, respect for women is not a priority in most Sanctuary cities, mine included. They're weaker than men and thus their rights have been set aside in the face of survival. I can essentially do whatever I want with my little captive and no one would step in.
I pace as she showers. I want to go in, but I don't want to frighten her. I'm not sure why this is important. I've never cared about a woman's feelings before. I don't have time for that. The few times a year I feel the need for female companionship I fuck them and I push them out the door. No mess, nothing that gets in the way of my single-minded focus. Then, none of those women have ever been as interesting as Taran. I choose my women from among the elite, sometimes they're single, more often they're married. Sharing women is common a practice that has grown as the numbers of women fall, especially fertile women. For me, they are just willing vessels to sate my lust. They leave and I forget about them. I've yet to find one that I want to spawn children with.
An image of Taran's slight figure bothers me. What would she look like pregnant? She's too small to produce strong children. At least not until they're born and start growing larger. Perhaps she already has children with someone else. Again, this thought disturbs me. I need to find out more about her, get her to talk. If I don't like the answers then I'll make changes to her life. I'm used to playing God in the lives of others. Why not this one insignificant girl?
I realize that she has nothing to wear other than the grimy clothes I found her in. I want those clothes thrown away, but she'll need something else to wear. Especially once the Judge arrives. I dig through my drawers and come up with a loose shirt that buttons up the front. It'll be huge on her, but it's better than what she has.
I open the door to the washroom and thrust the shirt inside. "Taran, you'll wear this when you finish." I stare hard at the frosted glass doors, but I can't see anything in the steam of the room. She'd definitely taking advantage of the hot water. This thought pleases me. She wouldn't have access to hot water wherever she lives. There's a water reservoir in this building that pumps to the various living quarters. It's been outfitted with heating coils. Such a rare commodity can only be found in Sector One, leaving the rest of the city without any means of artificial heating. Most families make do with small gas stoves and firepits. This reminds me that I have no idea what district she's from, what house she calls home.
"You have five minutes and to finish and dress." She doesn't speak. I leave the door open and sit on the bed, listening for her movements. The shower turns off and I can hear dripping as she steps out and towels off. My eagerness to see her grows with each moment until I'm up and pacing again. I resist the urge to watch her as she pulls the shirt on.
Finally, she steps out of the washroom and I stop to look my fill. The Desert Wren. Wet strands of hair trail over the shirt, wetting it until it clings to her shoulders. The collar is open at her throat showing narrow collar bones against delicate flesh. Her skin tone, without the dirt, is slightly paler than mine. Not white, but not very tanned either. Her hair is a rich, dark brownish red that will probably lighten as it dries. Slim legs poke out from the hem of the shirt, which stops nearly at her knees. My hunger grows at the sight of her.
Her face is round, her chin and nose softer, more feminine than I'd thought when she was covered in dirt. A slight flush pinkens her cheeks. Her eyes, tilted in at the corners, look large in her face. She is not beautiful, but she's not plain either. She would be easily overlooked on the street if a person wasn't interested at first sight. But the more I look, the more I feel the rightness of her appearance, of my attraction to her. She's perfect.
"How old are you?" I demand hoarsely.
She glares at me, determined to give nothing. I'm finished with her stubborn attitude. She needs to learn who she's dealing with and I need to know how old she is. I need to know that I can make her mine, take her carnally, without worry that I'm fucking someone too young. And if she is too young, then I'll wait until she's old enough. I walk toward her so rapidly that she only has time to retreat a single step before I'm wrapping my fingers around her throat and lifting her. She chokes and clutches at my wrist as I slam her into the wall at her back. I crowd her with my body, both to intimidate her and to hold her up. I've no wish to strangle her, only frighten the truth out of her. I hold her at least a foot off the floor. Her feet are scrambling against my legs as she tries to gain purchase.
I pin her with my gaze and say calmly, "Your age?"