Chapter 12: Diogo

I lower her slowly, allowing her to feel the strength in me should she refuse to answer the question again. Once her toes are back on the floor, I loosen my grip only enough for her to suck in a desperate breath of air. When she's had enough I flex my fingers threateningly.

"Twenty-six!" she gasps.

I raise an eyebrow. If she's telling the truth, then she's definitely older than she looks. She's likely been a runt all her life then. Not much of a prize for men in a world that actively seeks larger, healthier looking women. Yet, this one isn't unappealing. She has a healthy glow about her. Likely that spitfire attitude makes her eyes snap with enough fury to give her the glow.

I grunt in acknowledgment. She's fifteen years my junior. Young, but not out of reach. My gaze drops once more, lingering on the small breasts poking against my white shirt. The nipples are peaked, probably from reaction to my rough handling. She's slim all over. No good for birthing children. Especially with a warlord. A man in my position is expected to mate with a strong woman.

"Are you married?"

She frowns and avoids my eye. I sense that she's about to refuse to answer the question. I don't want to hurt or frighten her again, but these questions must be answered. "Taran," I growl down at her. She lifts defiant eyes up to mine. "Answer the question. This is nothing compared to a real interrogation. I prefer you remain intact but will choose the alternate path if you don't give me what I ask."

"And where does it end, Diogo?" She digs her fingers into mine, tugging to get my hand off her neck. Her struggles are pointless. She's like a bird fluttering angrily against its cage. "How much will you demand? Names, places, my soul? I've determined that death is preferable to betraying my friends."

"This is not a negotiation." I tighten my grip once more. I'm losing patience with her stubborn resistance. "You don't seem to understand that it isn't one or the other. Information or death. There is so much in between that your imagination can't even begin to comprehend. All I ask for now is your marital status."

Her eyes are sparkling with tears, likely from the pain of my attack and heightened emotions. She's feeling trapped.

"Answer," I growl, giving her no choice.

"Yes!" she hisses breathlessly. "I have a husband."

I shouldn't be, and yet, I'm shocked by her answer. I wasn't expecting it. Perhaps I hoped her husband dead. The urge to shake his name out of her is so strong that I have to step back so I won't harm her. It wouldn't take much. She's too delicate for such treatment and I'm not used to leashing my strength. Still, anger is rushing through me. An unfamiliar emotion. I rule with cold, calm logic so I don't take any missteps with my leadership. This woman is fucking with my equilibrium.

I briefly consider sending her back to processing. But I've known for a while now, well before I met the woman, that I was intrigued. That her ideals and conviction had captured and held my interest. She first landed on my radar when she used the hunger riots to smuggle people into the city. It took months for us to realize what she'd done. My people estimate that she was able to hide nearly 100 illegals during that time. We began searching further back and discovered that she'd been working the underground rebel circuit for nearly a decade. She would've been sixteen when she first started people smuggling.

Yet despite her work producing legitimate looking forgeries, guiding illegals into the city and generally stirring rebellion among the non-elites, we hadn't been able to discover a single clue to her identity. She is well-loved among the people. They would plead ignorance at every turn, protecting their rebel leader, even under threat.

I stare at her, taking in her defiant pose and snapping eyes. I want to demand her husband's name. I want to ensure his death with my own hands. I want her free from him so she can be with me. But I don't touch her. Now isn't the time. Instead, I jerk my head toward the door. "Come."

She follows behind me. Not too close. Despite her attitude, she's wary now that I've threatened her physically. I seat her at the table and am about to gather something for us to eat when my radio squawks. The Judge has arrived.

I allow him entry and wave him toward my prisoner. Huffing and puffing from the climb up 20 floors, he takes his time sitting down and catching his breath. He opens his diary and glances at me. "Processing didn't give me much information. Just the name, Desert Wren, and the charges."

I cross my arms and stare back at him. I don't like the officious man, yet he is our judge and has been for many years. He has several lesser prosecutors that work under him, dispensing justice on petty crimes. But the Judge is responsible for greater crimes. Crimes such as the ones that Taran is facing. Treason within a Sanctuary city is one of the worst crimes a person can commit. It weakens social order and leaves the city vulnerable.

"You may add the name ‘Taran' with the Desert Wren," I tell him gruffly.

He makes a note and then looks up at me with brow lifted. "Surname?"

"None. Move on, Judge." I don't attempt civility. There's no point to such niceties. Civilization has collapsed and only the strongest survive. Those who attempt polite societal niceties are either lying or heading ignorantly toward their own deaths.

The Judge moves his gaze to Taran, taking her in with interest. I'm not pleased with his speculative look, but I hold my peace for now. Most in our circles have heard of the Wren. It would seem stranger if he simply ignored her.

"Taran  Desert Wren," he begins. "You are charged with treason against your Sanctuary city. You are charged with providing forged documents to illegals and bringing them into the city. You are charged with hiding illegals from the Authority. You are charged with inciting unrest among the citizens."

She sits unmoving, absorbing each charge. We both know what's coming, yet my heart pounds for her as we reach the conclusion. For her part, she's gripping the seat on either side of her thighs, as though to stop herself from launching at the Judge.

"Taran  Desert Wren, how do you plead?"

She lifts her lip in a sneer. "I refuse to plead anything in this mockery of a trial. Fuck you and your judgments."

The Judge stiffens slightly, his face hardening, but he doesn't otherwise react to her profane comments.

"Taran  Desert Wren, you have been judged. You will be executed for these crimes. Your sentence is effective immediately. You will be escorted to the execution hall where the sentence will be carried out. Please stand."