Chapter 14: Hunger

Dragon Ironside

I take a deep breath, trying to control the desire consuming me from within. I have work to do, orders from Marcus to carry out. But first I need something, I want to feel at least one touch. To taste her. Something to sustain me through the day, or I'll go insane knowing she is here, in my house, in my bed, and yet so unattainable.

"Answer me when I speak to you, Nadja," I say, and my voice carries a thread of irritation I cannot hide.

She startles, her eyes snapping open suddenly. She looks at me and in her blue eyes, I see the reflection of a cornered animal. One that has been hurt too much and only expects to receive more pain.

"Let me taste you, Nadja," the plea escapes me before I can stop it. "I promise I'll leave you alone after that. I'll go mad if you deny me this."

She looks at me and there is genuine confusion on her face. An incomprehension that goes beyond fear. From her expression, it's clear she has no idea what I'm asking.

"Nadja, you know what I'm talking about, don't you?" I ask, and another piece of the puzzle that is my wife falls into place. "Answer."

"I don't… taste what?" Her voice is a thread of sound, full of genuine bewilderment.

God. My blood runs cold for a moment, only to boil again.

"What kind of man was that idiot Otávio?" The question comes out as a growl.

At the sound of his name, tears begin to stream from her eyes; I realize I've triggered something else in her mind. She doesn't cry loudly; the tears simply flow, silent and ceaseless, as if a dam has broken inside her.

She is trembling. And suddenly I understand, completely and terribly.

Otávio never… he never made her feel pleasure from sex. She probably doesn't even know how to identify what pleasure is. From all this terror I see her display, he only knew how to cause pain, humiliation, and suffering. She doesn't know what I'm asking because, for her, a man's touch is only for violence. Surely, sex was always brutal and painful.

The revelation hits me like a punch to the gut. For a moment, I am frozen, still kneeling before her, my hands still on her legs.

I keep my eyes fixed on hers, I slide my hand along her thigh, moving up slowly, hoping her body will calm and relax. I want to try to show her, but when I press my lips against the inside of her thigh and try to gently open her legs, they clamp shut with surprising strength.

"Nadja, please…" the plea escapes me, laden with a need I had no idea I was feeling.

"What are you going to do?" she asks, and there is a genuine tremor of confusion in her voice.

"I want to touch you, to taste your pussy with my mouth," I explain, the words coming out more vulgar than I intended, but there's no way to soften this. "I want to give you pleasure. May I, Little One?"

She looks at me for a long moment and I see many things passing through her eyes. The risks. The consequences. And mainly, the fear.

"If I say what you told me yesterday…" I see in her eyes she is searching for the best way to tell me. "And if I say stop, what will happen?" she asks, and there is a spark of something there.

I pull back a little, analyzing the tone of her voice and her question. It's not courage I hear, but I think it's already the beginning of an understanding that she might have some choice in this marriage.

The relief I feel is so intense it almost bowls me over. She is asking; she is not simply accepting my desires and my need. She is testing boundaries, not just blindly obeying.

"Nothing will happen, Nadja, just as I explained to you," I say, feeling a hoarse, humorless laugh in my voice. "I already told you I don't force women to have sex with me."

But I can't hide the frustration that is there, overflowing. The frustration of unfulfilled desire, of the proximity I cannot have, of the woman who is mine, but whom I still cannot truly touch.

I stand up abruptly, moving away from her. I need space, air. And I definitely need to masturbate so I don't do something stupid that ruins the little progress I believe I just made.

I walk to the entrance of our bedroom closet and lean against the wall, my forehead pressed against the drywall.

"Get out of here, Nadja," I order, my voice tense. "Don't show yourself in front of me until I leave for work."

I hear the quick movement behind me, the sound of her feet sliding on the floor, and the door opening and closing. I sigh when she literally fled; if she only knew I have no intention of hurting her, quite the opposite…

I watch the door closing, look down, and from her quick movements, I can see the bottom of her butt is visible. She is not wearing panties, and the thoughts are torture at this moment. I draw a breath and punch the wall. The drywall gives way under my hand and a piece of the metal stud ends up piercing the skin. I feel the sharp pain from the cut I just got while my cock springs to life.

I pull my hand from the hole that opened up and watch the blood run down my fingers, dripping onto the gray carpet. I look at the hole I made, at the blood, and with my other hand I squeeze my erection.

"Shit!"

I desire my wife more than I have ever desired anything else in my life. But I cannot force her. Not after what she's been through.

I know what a man's abuse can do to a woman. I saw it with my own mother. I saw what my father did to her. How he broke her piece by piece until nothing was left but an empty shell that one day simply stopped functioning.

Nadja is already broken. But I know there is still something in her, that spark of questioning, that question about what would happen if she said no. It makes me understand she is not empty. There is still something to save.

But I know if I force her… if I do what Otávio did, even if differently, I will be as bad as he was. And I will lose her forever. Not just physically, but completely. And she will become a ghost, just like my mother became.

I enter the closet to take a shower, apply a quick bandage, and then leave the room taking deep breaths. I have business to settle. Orders from Marcus to carry out. Problems with the Canadians to handle. A warehouse to watch. Men to manage and a criminal empire to help run.

But all of that seems distant, unimportant, compared to the woman who is somewhere in this house, trembling with fear of me. Compared to the desire that consumes me from within, that turns every breath into agony.

I walk down the stairs, looking into the living room and kitchen; she is not in sight. She is probably locked in one of the other rooms, curled up again.

I grab my keys by the entryway. I look back at the silent house. At the fortress I built, which now contains my greatest desire and my greatest frustration.

"See you later, Little One," I murmur to the empty house, knowing she can't hear me, but needing to say it anyway.

I leave, closing the door behind me. The morning air is colder than yesterday, but I feel a weight leave my lungs, as if I am clearing them. It doesn't smell of fear, or of repressed desire, and it certainly doesn't smell of her.

I get in the car, start the engine. My injured hand hurts against the steering wheel, a sharp, constant pain that is a physical reminder of my lack of control.

I drive towards the city, to my duties, to my other life, the life of Dragon Ironside, Marcus's right-hand man, a man to be feared and respected.

But in my chest, there is a different conflict. A war between who I am, the violent man in a violent world, and who I need to be for her. A patient, controlled man who can wait.

And deep down, in the darkest part of myself, a question arises, persistent and troubling:

What if I can't?

If the desire is stronger?

What if the monster I keep chained inside me breaks its chains?

I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away. I have work to do, a reputation to uphold. And an empire to help protect.

But even as I drive away from the house and assume the persona of Dragon Ironside, I know a part of me stayed behind. It stayed with her. With Nadja.

And that part is hungry.

That part is in pain.

And that part doesn't know how long it can wait.