Page 137 of Born for Silk
I have not been present. Not with my heart or my body, and my Rome has seen this. Felt it. He hunts until he is bloodied each day and gives me that beautiful feeling between my legs each night in the dark without words, but I am half there and half… Not.
I did find a little hope today; I was able to convince Ana to see the Windmill Forest with me.
Outside, red dirt stirs in the air.
Inside the tank, the machinery surrounding me vibrates, low but strong, sturdy and protective, like the growling that comes from Rome’s chest when he thrusts into me each night…
I ignore the longing.
Focus on the tank.
On Ana and Tuscany.
This is not my first time in a military vehicle, but it might as well be. I was dazed and feverish the first time, distracted, too. By Rome…
Feels like forever ago.
Rome sits in the centre of the great fortress, a square portal offering him a view of us. One he takes every chance he can.
I don’t return his heavy gaze. Can’t. Even as I feel the pain beating from his flesh, the distance I enforce affects him— me, too.
You took her baby.
If I look at him, I will show him the wrong emotions, the angry ones threatening to blast and incinerate. If I open my mouth to him, I will say hurtful things; he will let me cut into him, claw at him because I need someone to blame for this… injustice. This… painful reality.
It is his fault?—
And it isn’t.
He didn’t create The Trade, nor did Master Cairo. They only manage what was handed to them, both the product of thousands of years of generational conditioning. Like me.
And he is right—I do not know how to rule or what is best for a baby. It makes sense that a child is raised by a skilled, mature caregiver, but… No one will love my baby as much as I will.
Then again, love is not a virtue.
I cannot decide how to feel. Cannot decide what I want. So, I refuse to look at him.
My emotions are too raw. Like weeping flesh, I need time to self-heal.
Snuggling into Ana’s side and she into mine, I wrap my arms around my swollen belly as the tank moves up and down the terrain. We agreed to see today as a detail in the puzzle of our lives and will ourselves to appreciate it.
Appreciate the air which smells like oil and metal. The cramped but tolerable space we share with Tuscany and a member of The Queen’s Army.
Appreciate the working art of jumbled textures. Smooth metal surfaces, various viewports, firm, green seats, and woven straps that bind utilities to the walls. Tools. Gear.
It feels like a hidden realm.
We both like tanks.
The queen’s attention does not dwell inside the tank; instead, it is captured by the blasting Redwind outside. It howls. Whistles. Builds.
Her eyes are pinned to a viewing window.
“Are you nervous?” I ask her and feel Rome’s gaze again, as if the sound of my voice is an arrow, and his attention, the target.
A small smile touches her lip, and her amber eyes flick to the graft on my wrist before returning to my face. “Not with you here. I can be brave, too.”
“We are just entering the Aquilla Windmill Forest. Look through your periscopes,” a motorised voice says from somewhere further inside the tank.