Chapter 8: Discoveries

Dragon Ironside

I watched Nadja sleep on my couch after she wandered through part of the house. She lies curled up like a wounded animal, even in her sleep. The blanket that used to decorate the couch is now wrapped around her body like makeshift armor, and her face, marked by the shadows of exhaustion and fear, occasionally twists with nightmares that only she can see.

I don't move or make a sound. I learned long ago how to observe without being noticed. It's a useful skill in my world and now, apparently, in my marriage.

When I left her here earlier, I didn't know what to expect. Part of me imagined I'd find the house destroyed in a fit of panic or despair. Another part, smaller and more cynical, thought she might have tried to escape, despite the clear threat I'd made about her sister.

But no. She's here. Sleeping. Or trying to sleep, between nightmares that make her shudder.

I turn and climb the stairs in silence. I need a shower. The day has been long: meetings with Marcus, my boss, friend, and leader of the organization in Montana. We had several discussions about territorial borders with the Canadians, the ever-present threat of Mexican cartels trying to expand northward. And in the middle of it all, the fact that I now have a wife. A wife who fears me more than she would fear a gunman pointing a weapon at her head.

The shower is hot, almost scalding. I let the water pound against my tense back, trying to wash away not just the grime of the day, but the weight of seeing that expression in her eyes when I walked into the room. The look of pure terror. The same look I've seen in the eyes of men who knew I was there to end them.

Only with Nadja, it's different. And that bothers me more than I'd like to admit.

I dry off, pull on a tank top and sweatpants. I head back downstairs, my bare feet making no sound on the marble floor. She's still sleeping, but now she's quieter. Her face has relaxed a little, though the tear tracks are still visible on her nearly pale cheeks.

I go to the kitchen. I'm hungry; I barely ate all day. I fill a glass with water and drink half of it in one gulp. And that's when I remember. She's been here since noon. It's almost nine at night.

I set the glass down on the counter harder than I intended. The sound echoes in the silent kitchen.

"Nadja!"

The silence that follows is absolute for a second. Then I hear a quick movement in the living room, the sound of someone curling up even tighter, if that's possible.

When I appear in the doorway, she's trembling. Literally trembling, like a leaf in a storm. Her eyes are wide, filled with a panic that makes me feel something strange in my chest, something hot and uncomfortable, like shame.

"I didn't do anything! I swear to God, I didn't do anything! Please!"

Her voice is a hoarse, broken whisper. She's humiliating herself, and the part of me that still remembers what it was like to be a scared boy in a world of violent men revolts at the scene.

"What did you eat all day, damn it?" My voice comes out harsher than I intended.

It was loaded with a frustration that's not entirely directed at her, but at the situation, at that damn Otávio for what he did to her, at this world that produces broken women like disposable products.

"Nothing! I swear! I didn't touch anything! I barely even left this room!"

She's telling the truth; I know because I monitored her day through the cameras I have installed in the house. I can see in her eyes the terror my tone caused her. And that enrages me in a way few things can.

My fist clenches before I can stop it, and I punch the wall beside me. The drywall gives way with a dull thud, leaving a rounded mark in the painted plaster.

My reaction terrifies her even more, and I watch her disappear behind the couch. I see and hear her breathing, rapid and almost hyperventilating.

"Are you trying to starve yourself?" I ask, trying to lower my voice, trying to find some tone that won't make her collapse completely.

"No! I just... I didn't know if I was allowed to eat or even touch anything. You didn't tell me anything."

The words come out between sobs, and I see the tears start to flow again. She's behind the furniture, using it as a barrier between her and me. Her huge blue eyes are watching me as if I'm a lion about to pounce.

And suddenly, I see her.

I really see her. Not just as Nadja Mayer, the widow of Otávio Mayer, but as the woman I demanded as payment for my actions. I see her as a person, a nineteen-year-old young woman who spent the last three years being tortured by a sadist.

Who learned that a man's touch means pain. Who learned that obeying is the only way to survive in the world she was born into.

And there she is, hungry, terrified, not even knowing if she can take an apple from the fruit bowl because no one gave her permission.

The anger in me drains away as quickly as it came, replaced by something more complex, harder to name.

"Sit on the couch, Nadja. Now."

My voice is still a command, but it's no longer a shout. It's firm, yet controlled.

She obeys, emerging from behind the couch like a ghost. Her movements are hesitant, calculated, as if every muscle is ready to retreat at any moment. I watch as she sits on the edge of the couch, her body still tense, ready to bolt.

I sit in the armchair opposite, keeping a distance I hope will feel reassuring to her.

"First," I begin, choosing my words with a care I usually reserve for negotiations with armed enemies. "I know the life you led with that sick bastard. But you need to know one thing: I don't use violence gratuitously. Cooperate, and we won't have problems."

She stares at me, and in her eyes I see not just fear, but skepticism. And complete disbelief. She doesn't believe me. And why would she?

She doesn't know me yet.

From what I've seen, in her world, men's words are as empty as the bullets they fire, serving only to cause harm.

I sigh. Long and deep.

I rub my face with one hand, feeling the fatigue of the day and the weight of this new responsibility I've taken on.

"All right," I say, knowing words won't be enough. Only time and consistent actions will prove anything to her. "I don't hit women. But I don't tolerate attacks of any kind. Clear?"

She nods, confirming she understands, a tiny movement, almost imperceptible.

"I don't need to hit someone to end them," I add, and I immediately regret it when I see her body shrink again.

It wasn't a threat, just a fact. In my world, physical violence is only one of many tools available, and not always the most effective.

I change the subject.

"Get up, take a shower, and make something for both of us to eat."

She shakes her head no, and I immediately feel that spark of irritation return. But before I can say anything, she hurries to explain:

"I don't have any clothes. I didn't bring anything, remember?"

I look at the yellow dress she's still wearing. It's wrinkled, stained with tears. She looks like a child wearing an adult's clothes, not because the dress is too big, but because there's something about her that seems diminished or shrunken; I don't quite know what yet.

"Wear one of my T-shirts," I say. "Tomorrow morning we'll get you some clothes. Or you can do like I do: order online and they'll deliver tomorrow."

This time, she nods.

"Where's the bathroom?"

"Use the one in our bedroom. Second door on the right."

I watch her for a few seconds, waiting for some reaction to the term "our bedroom." But there's none, just that resigned acceptance, that submission that hurts more to witness than any defiance.

She stands and leaves the room. I hear her footsteps going up the stairs; they're light and almost stealthy, as if she's trying not to disturb the air around her.

I stay in the armchair for a long moment, staring at the mark my fist left on the wall. I need to fix that. In fact, I need to fix a lot of things.

I get up and go back to the kitchen. I open the fridge, check what we have. There's meat, vegetables, and some frozen seafood. Enough for a decent meal.

While I wait, I grab my phone and send a message to Marcus:

Dragon: The situation is under control. I need tomorrow off to handle some domestic issues.

The reply comes almost immediately:

Marcus: Domestic? You're going soft, Dragon. Don't let a woman weaken you.

I don't respond. Marcus is a good boss, but he doesn't understand this yet. He doesn't understand why I wanted Nadja. The truth is, I don't fully understand it myself. I'd only seen her twice before today. The first was at Marcus's uncle's funeral, almost two years ago. She was with Otávio, but her eyes were empty, as if she wasn't really there. The second was at a restaurant six months later. Otávio was talking loudly, drunk, and she was sitting beside him, staring at her hands in her lap. I saw how her wrists and neck were bruised.