Chapter 10 Fury and Silence

Chapter 10 Fury and Silence
Nadja Mayer

The sound of the door closing echoes through the house like a gunshot. Dragon is gone. I'm alone again. My hands shake as I finish washing the plate, scrubbing it with unnecessary force, as if I could erase the fingerprints of my new reality along with the food scraps.

I dry my hands on the apron and look around the spotless kitchen. Everything is in its place. Everything is clean. It's a house that doesn't feel lived in, just maintained. Like a museum or a luxury hotel that never has guests.

I go back to the living room and sit on the same couch where I slept earlier. The spot is already starting to feel like my only safe harbor in this strange house, and the thought is so depressing it almost makes me laugh. Or cry. I can't tell the difference anymore.

The night outside is quiet. Very quiet. In Montana, I've discovered that silence has weight, has texture. It's not just the absence of sound; it's an active presence that presses against your eardrums, turning every small noise-the creak of wood, the whisper of wind against the windows-into an intrusion.

I glance at the clock on the wall. It's almost eleven. Dragon said he'd be back in half an hour, but more than an hour has passed. A part of me, the part that still remembers waiting for Otávio-that mix of terror and hope that he wouldn't return-wonders if something happened. Maybe he won't come back either.

But another part, more realistic, knows he will. Men like him always come back. It's what they do.

I'm exhausted. My body feels like it's made of lead; every muscle aches from built-up tension. My eyes burn from crying, from staying on high alert. So I give in and do what he told me to do.

I climb those stairs to lie in the bed that's his. Or, as he put it, "our bed."

"Our."

The word sounds false in my mind. It's almost ridiculous. Nothing in this situation is "ours." Everything is his. The house is his. The couch I'm sitting on is his. I... I am his.

That truth, raw and unfiltered, finally settles in me, cutting through the fear, the denial, the anger. It's a fact. Like gravity. Like death. I belong to Dragon Ironside the same way this house belongs to him. I signed the papers, and only now do I realize I'm no longer Nadja Mayer or Becker.

"I'm Nadja Ironside..." I cover my mouth with my hands. "Without even realizing it, I signed a damn marriage contract."

And now here I am, in this bedroom, feeling tired and desperate, waiting for him like a good wife waits for her husband. The irony is so bitter I can taste it on my tongue, like the metallic tang of blood.

I hear the vehicle arrive first-a soft rumble that approaches, then stops. The garage door opens and closes. My body freezes, every muscle locking into a defensive position as I lie in bed with my back to the door. That posture has become as natural as breathing.

The bedroom door opens, and I realize he goes straight to the bathroom. I stay frozen in bed, my breath caught in my chest. Maybe he'll just lie down and fall asleep from exhaustion, forgetting I'm here.

I feel him come to the bed, lie down, and the mattress dips beside me. I wish I had the courage to turn and face this head-on; it would be better than dragging out this agony.

I keep my back to him, and when I hear him say...

"I'm not going to touch you." It catches me off guard. "Not tonight. Not until you're ready to be touched by me."

That alone is enough to knock down one row of the wall between us. I know I shouldn't believe it-how many times did I hear Otávio make that same promise?

My crying from relief eventually stops, and my body grows numb from staying in the same position. I turn, facing him.

He's wearing only dark cotton shorts; his hair is damp. His skin is pale in contrast to the black hair that's glistening faintly in the dim light. And his gray eyes seem to see everything as they fix on me.

He's huge, even lying down like this. Even knowing how tall he is, I believe he'd easily clear two meters. Beyond that, he's broad. His shoulders seem to fill his entire side of the bed. His arms are ropes of muscle laced with white and pink scars that tell stories I don't want to imagine. His chest is wide and marked as well; his abdomen is defined in a way that speaks of brutal discipline, not vanity.

But it's not his physicality that paralyzes me. It's his intensity. The way he occupies space, as if the air around him bends to accommodate him in the bed. As if reality itself adjusts to his presence.

I shift a little farther away on the bed, as if he needs more room or simply because fear speaks louder. My eyes fill with tears again-damn it, I thought I'd run out-and I know they glisten, blurring and distorting his image.

He says nothing. He just lies there, watching me. And I watch him back. The silence between us isn't just the absence of sound; it's a living thing, pulsing and charged with everything unsaid. With everything that can't be said.

I can feel desire in him. Not like I felt it in Otávio, which was cruel and sadistic, feeding on my pain. Dragon's desire is different. Deeper, something that reminds me of possessiveness. It's the desire of a man who saw something he wanted and now has it, but hasn't decided what to do with it yet.

I know I'm radiating fear. I can feel it pouring out of me in waves, the scent of adrenaline and desperation. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it from his side of the bed. My hands are cold; my legs feel weak.

He finally breaks the silence. His voice is even rougher than before, as if he'd spent the night shouting.

"It's late..."

The silence between us in the bed is thick. He's lying staring at the ceiling; my body is a tense line of anticipation. I've cried so much that my eyes are dry and burning, but tears still insist on falling silently, wetting the pillow that smells of him and the lavender from the laundry detergent, and something deeper, earthy, purely masculine and his.

I don't know how much time passes. Minutes? An hour? There's no clock in here; the room is too modern for that. There's only the sound of our breathing-his slow and controlled; mine shallow and trembling, trying to pass for calm.

Then, in a sudden movement that makes me freeze, he turns, facing me. I don't look, but I feel the mattress shift, feel the heat of his body drawing closer. My heart races, hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Here it comes, I think.

Here comes the price. The promise of "just sleeping" was too fragile to be true.

But he doesn't touch me.

"Look at me," his voice says, rough in the dim light.

It's not an invitation, nor a request. It's a statement. And an order.