Chapter 13 Truce

Chapter 13 Truce
Dragon Ironside

I wake before dawn, as always. A years-long habit, first because of the army and then because of this life, now etched into my very bones. The room is still dark, but my eyes have already adjusted to the minimal light filtering through the closed blinds.

I turn my head to the side and see that Nadja is still asleep.

She is lying on her side, her back to me, looking like a small bundle under the covers. Her dark hair spreads across the pillow and her breathing is so light that, for a moment, I worry if she is actually breathing. Then, I see the slight movement of her shoulders, the almost imperceptible rhythm of her chest rising and falling.

I remain motionless, watching her, which is utterly strange for me. I have never shared my bed with anyone for an entire night. The few women I brought to this house, on the rare occasions I felt a physical need, always left after satisfying my needs.

I never allowed them to stay. And I certainly never wished to wake up with someone beside me.

But with her, it's different. I want her to stay; I feel the need to wake up like this every day with her by my side. And this desire frightens me almost as much as it seems to frighten her.

I get up silently, not wanting to wake her. When my foot touches the floor, I feel the shards of glass and plastic, the remnants of my rage from last night. Our bedroom is a mess. And now I need to clean it before she sees it and has another panic attack.

It's almost five in the morning when I finish gathering the last fragments of glass. I had placed the shards on the small rug at the foot of the bed. The mirror is completely destroyed; now there is only the empty square on the wall where it hung. The television was also a total loss. I will need to replace both.

As I work, my mind returns to her. To what she said.

"I can't bear the thought of being raped, beaten, and sodomized again."

The words echo in my head like gunshots. I knew Otávio was scum. I was sure he hit her. But this… sodomizing his own wife… that is something else.

That is breaking someone inside, in a way that never fully heals.

My hands clench into fists so tightly that my knuckles turn white. I should have made him suffer more. I should have dragged out his death for days… no… for weeks.

The cut brake line was a joyless death in my eyes; it was too merciful for an animal like him. But, since Marcus's order was to leave no trace of our involvement in his death, it was the best I could manage with the time I had.

I take no pride in that death, but he had problems with my boss and I desired his wife. I merely combined the useful with the pleasant for my own satisfaction.

I look at the bed the moment I see her stir and sigh when I am sure she is still asleep. Her face is relaxed in sleep, but even so, there is a certain tension there, a shadow under her eyes that cannot completely disappear.

I leave the room silently, closing the door behind me. I go to the gym in the basement, a fully equipped space where I can turn my anger into something productive, or at least into something that doesn't involve destroying my own house.

Two hours of working out and a conversation with Marcus at his wife's request. I am leaving the gym sweaty and with my muscles burning from the effort, heading up the stairs. It is seven-thirty; I am sure she must be awake by now.

When I enter the bedroom, she is standing by the side of the bed, wearing only the black t-shirt from last night. Her eyes are wide, scanning the clean room, the absence of the mirror shards, and the empty space on the wall where the TV was.

She sees me and freezes once again. Tension immediately returns to her body, her shoulders rise, her muscles brace for…

What? For an attack? To flee?

"Marcus's wife asked that you call her," I say, keeping my voice neutral, looking for neutral ground for us to talk. Something that isn't about us, about this unbearable tension between us. "I think she's worried about you."

"Yes…" she replies, her voice a hoarse whisper.

"Yes what, Nadja?" I ask, and her name on my tongue sounds right, as if it should always have been said that way.

She blinks, confused.

"Should I call her?" she asks.

Her voice is still small, but there is a nuance of questioning there, as if she is testing the boundaries.

That's good. Pure fear is worse. With her starting to question a little, it's something I can work with.

"That's right, the decision is yours, little one," I reply, crossing my arms. "When it comes to Marcus's wife, you are free to talk to her. You can even meet with her here at our house or at theirs, if you prefer."

Her eyes widen, clearly showing how much this surprised her. That's good. I want her to know I won't lock her up here. That she has some freedom, even if it's within some pre-established limits for her own safety, of course.

I approach and she instinctively recoils, her back meeting the dresser behind her. I stop, reconsidering what I'm doing. I had made a deal, but still I want to test how far I can go with her.

I sit on the edge of the bed and am practically at the same height as her. I want her to see me not as a threatening tower, but as someone who won't hurt her; perhaps in the future she might see me as her husband.

I know she still can't even think of that word without trembling.

But even with me there, sitting on the edge of the bed, she shrinks back, pressing herself even more against the dresser as if she wants to pass through the solid wood of its frame.

I see the desperation in her eyes, and I feel a sharp, unexpected pang in my chest. She cannot stand my proximity. And I understand, with my rationality, I can understand the trauma she has. After all she endured, how could she?

But, even so, her rejection still hurts. Something sick and possessive still boils inside me that wants to demand what is rightfully mine.

I restrain and swallow it. Because she is right to be afraid. And I don't want to be another source of terror in her life, but I want her to understand that I don't want to hurt her; I want to give pleasure to her body.

"I want you on the edge of the bed now, Nadja," I say, my voice softer than I intended.

She hesitates. I see the conflict in her eyes and the desire to disobey is there, fighting against the deeply ingrained instinct of obedience that Otávio carved into her through pain.

I watch her swallow dryly, let out a resigned sigh, and walk toward the bed, obeying me. Her movements are slow and hesitant. She sits on the edge of the bed, not far from where I am, and I watch as her hands are clenched in her lap.

I feel a wave of anger, not at her, but at him. At the ghost of that bastard who, even after death, hasn't lost control over my wife. What he did to her was so profound that, without even saying a word, I see her tremble, still making her obey not out of respect, but out of pure panic and terror.

I move closer to her, still on my knees. I place my hands on her legs, feeling how the skin of her thighs is soft and warm under the thin layer of cotton of my shirt. She immediately closes her eyes, her face twisting into a mask of resignation.

Then I realize what used to happen when he touched her. Nadja would simply shut down when she felt his touch on her body, and surely her mind only brought her back when he was done with her.

The anger in me grows, but I channel it, transform it into something different. Into the need and desire I have always had for her, which I kept secret so she wouldn't suffer worse retaliation from that bastard.

I press my face against her thigh, breathing in her scent through the fabric. It is a sweet smell, not just the scent of the soap she bathed with; there is something exuding from her pores. My desire for her is a physical thing and has already become painful. It is a tension that runs through my entire body and demands relief.

"Nadja?" I call, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

She doesn't answer. She remains there quiet and still. I raise my head a little and see her eyes are closed, her body rigid as a board.

I could smell her fear. It is a bittersweet, familiar smell. In my line of work, I learned to recognize the smell of true fear, of dread. And that is what she exudes. Not just fear, but absolute terror; she feels the terror that is in me. Terror of what she thinks I will do.