Chapter 15 Panic Again
Chapter 15 Panic Again
Dragon Ironside
The day is long. Unnecessarily long.
Every meeting, every phone call, every decision I make feels like an obstacle between me and returning home. To her. Marcus notices my distraction and pulls me aside after a private conversation about what the Canadians are up to.
"You're distracted, Dragon," he says, his dark eyes studying me with that sharp perception that made him the mafia leader. "This woman. She is softening you."
"She's not," I reply, too quickly and too defensively.
Marcus smiles, a slow, dangerous movement of his lips. Even though he is my boss, he is my friend and he certainly wouldn't miss the chance to try and rile me up. Of course, he doesn't need to know how on edge I already am.
"Every time you defend yourself too quickly, it's because you're lying to me. Be careful, women are like water; they find every crack and every one of our weaknesses. And then they flood everything with who they are."
I don't reply. Because part of me knows he is right. Nadja is finding my cracks. The few that still exist. The ones I thought I had buried deep. He was looking at me, waiting for me to say something, when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.
I look at the screen and see it's the house phone, it's her.
"Fuck you!" I say to him, who lets out a laugh and slaps my shoulder before I show him the middle finger.
"Don't make me regret giving the order that led you to your wife, my friend…"
My heart does a stupid leap as I watch Marcus walk away. But, before my mind can control it. I answer the call on the third ring, trying to sound neutral and unapproachable, which is a fucking lie.
"Nadja, is something wrong?"
"Actually, no," her voice is controlled, but there is a determination there. "Dragon, I cannot keep walking around the house wearing only your t-shirts."
I smile at the thought of her, like this morning, walking around in my shirts, letting me see glimpses of her skin and, in a few moments, allowing me to touch her without causing a panic attack. When we left Serbia, I didn't want her to bring anything that was acquired with Otávio's money. Things that carry his memory, his touch, and the pain he caused her.
"I like picturing you in my shirts, are you really that bothered?" I ask, trying to force a playful tone.
"Yes!" Her voice gets louder and suddenly the call drops.
I pull the device from my ear and see that she ended the call. Simply hung up. The sound of silence on the phone is more impactful than any word she could have said besides that 'yes'.
I stare at the device, stunned. She hung up on me. Nadja. The woman who trembles when I enter the room. The woman who last night was so scared she could barely breathe. She hung up the damn phone on me.
A wave of anger rises, hot and familiar. But right behind it comes something else… surprise at her action. God help me, but I think I'm feeling a twinge of admiration?
She is finding her backbone. I think she is starting to stand up. Within the limits she can manage, of course. But still, she is standing up.
I call back. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. And she doesn't answer.
My hand clenches around the device so tightly the screen glass creaks. The men around me in the warehouse meeting room discreetly step back, recognizing the signs of a storm about to break.
"Domestic troubles, Dragon?" asks Aleksey, his tone carefully neutral.
"Nothing I can't handle," I growl, putting the phone away. "Let's wrap this up. I have other things to do."
At the end of all the meetings, I drive home faster than I should. The Montana landscape is vast, open, and relentless, but it passes by me in a blur of blues and browns. All I can think about is her. About my wife's boldness. About her newfound courage. And about the almost painful need to see her, to prove to myself that she is still there. That she is still mine and hasn't tried to run from me.
When I enter the house, the smell hits me first. She is cooking something that smells of garlic, onions. It is a smell this house has never had. It is the smell of home.
Nadja is in the kitchen, washing a pot. I see she is still wearing one of my black t-shirts; I think this is still the same one she wore last night. Her feet are bare. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, with a few dark strands escaping.
She sees me and stops what she was doing. But this time, there is no immediate, animal fear. There is caution, yes. But there is also a challenge. She is far from the bedroom or the bed. And here, in the daylight, in the kitchen, she seems to feel safer. As if she has more control over what might happen.
"Why didn't you answer the phone?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
"Because I didn't want to," she replies without hesitation, drying her hands on a cloth.
The answer is so direct and so unexpected that a rough laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It's a sound almost unfamiliar to my own ears.
"Nadja, are you losing your fear of me, Little One?" I ask, and there's a note of genuine curiosity in my voice. "That's good, I like that."
She turns to me again and I see her blue eyes narrowing.
"You don't want me to be afraid of you? It would be easier to control me."
I approach, slowly, giving her time to retreat if she wants. And by some miracle, she doesn't retreat.
"I don't like easy women," I say, stopping a few steps from her. "And, answering your question, I don't want you to fear me; I get enough of that on the street. I prefer to control you in other ways, in bed, by giving you pleasure, for example."
I see the terror return to her eyes at the mention of bed. It's instantaneous. Another trigger. The bedroom, the bed, these are the places where Otávio broke her. Where she learned that men offer pain.
But I continue, keeping my voice soft, almost conversational.
"Outside of it, Little One, you can even challenge me, as long as you don't dare to slap me like last time."
She swallows dryly, her eyes fixed on mine. There is a visible struggle within her, the learned fear against this new possibility, this new agreement I'm offering.
"I promise to try not to be violent like yesterday…" she says finally, her voice firm. "But I want the same in return."
I nod. It's fair. It's more than fair.
"We have a deal. Now, get ready…" I say and look over her shoulder, to where a delicious aroma was coming from. "After dinner, we'll go buy clothes for you."
She hesitates, then nods and goes upstairs to change. I stay in the kitchen, breathing in the smell of the food she made, looking at the clean pot and at the space she is starting to occupy in my house and in my life.
When she comes down, she is wearing the same dress we traveled in yesterday, the only one she has. And she looks… stunning. The simple fabric accentuates her breasts just right for my hands, her small waist, the curve of her hips. Her hair is loose, falling in dark waves over her shoulders. Her eyes are clear and free of tears, at least for now.
My desire for her is a physical thing, a tightening in my stomach, a tension I hold back. Because today is not about that; it's about something different.
After our meal, we leave the house accompanied by two men, Leo and Tomas, who are waiting outside one of the vehicles that will follow us. They are discreet, but always vigilant. Nadja looks at them, then at me, and I see the silent question in her eyes.
"Security, Little One," I explained briefly. "We'll always have them with us."
She nods, accepting it. She grew up in this world; she understands how it works.
I drove to the town's main street. It's a clear, still sunny evening, the kind of day that makes people forget Montana has winters that can kill. When I park and we get out of the car, Nadja starts walking ahead of me, towards the stores.
I catch up to her and take her hand.
She stops, surprised. She looks at our intertwined hands, then at me. Her eyes are wide and disbelieving.
"You are my wife," I say, my voice low but firm for her. "You will walk with me as such? I need you to overcome your aversion due to your fears so I can hold your hand."
She tries to pull her hand away, instinctively. My fingers close gently over hers, not with force, but with enough firmness for her to understand this is not negotiable.
"Be calm, Little One," I murmur, leaning closer. "We are on the street; you can't make a scene here and not now. If you're still bothered later, we'll sit and talk."
She relaxes a little, her hand still tense in mine, but now she accepts my touch. We start walking, Leo and Tomas at a discreet distance behind us.
It's strange. Walking hand in hand. I don't remember the last time I did this. If I've ever done it in my life. The disproportion is almost hilarious; my hand is much larger than hers, and marked by scars and calluses, enveloping hers, which is soft and small. It's a brutal contrast.
Violence and softness. Darkness and light.