Chapter 21 The Ghost Doesn't Sleep Here

Chapter 21 The Ghost Doesn't Sleep Here
Dragon Ironside

Something inside me twists. Because I know what she's seeing. She isn't seeing me, her husband, who's trying to comfort her and ease her fears. She's seeing Otávio. Or worse, she's seeing both of us,Otávio and me,as monsters from the same nightmare.

"Nadja," I say, my voice a bit firmer, trying to reach her through the fog of panic. "Look at me. Just look at me."

She raises her eyes, trembling.

"I won't hurt you, Little One," I say, each word carefully placed, as if disarming a bomb. "I will never hurt you. You are safe with me. Remember? You are with me now, and I am taking care of you."

She shakes her head, affirming it, silent tears beginning to stream down her cheeks.

"I prefer when you attack me," I say, and the admission comes out harsher than I intended. "When you hit me, or when you show anger. I don't like it when you run from me. When you fear me like this."

She doesn't say anything. She just cries, immobile and trapped between the wall and her fear.

"Dammit, Nadja," I sigh, rubbing my face. "I will never do anything without your consent. You know that, don't you?"

She doesn't answer. She just looks at me, her blue eyes enormous and flooded in a face as pale as death.

Exhaustion hits me. I am tired of this dance, this constant fight against ghosts I didn't put there, but which I also couldn't completely banish as I imagined I would after his death.

"You're not going to say anything?" I ask, and there's a frustration in my voice that I try to hold back, but can't completely.

She swallows, her eyes shifting to the floor.

"Can I… can I sleep in the other room?" The question comes out as a broken whisper.

"No, I want to face this with you; we need to start facing this, Little One…" I murmur and sit on the bed.

I sit on the edge of the bed and pull the blanket that was covering her body, placing it over my legs. I want to comfort her and show that I can protect her. But then I look at her, huddled against the wall, trembling, with the eyes of a cornered animal, and I know it would be futile.

Perhaps even worse,perhaps cruel.

She is afraid of me. And in the bedroom, in the bed, she feels most vulnerable. I would be a scoundrel to pretend I don't understand that.

"Go," I say, my voice tired. "The door is open, but Nadja, I really wish you would stay so we can overcome this together."

She lets out a sigh; her body, though tense, seems to relax a little. I see the hesitation in her eyes; they are still fixed on me as if I might attack at any moment. She shakes her head, and I watch her pass by me.

Instinctively, I raise my hand. I want to touch her and hold her here. I want to make her understand that I am here, that I am different, that she doesn't need to be afraid.

My fingers touch her wrists, and a light electric current passes between us at that contact. The step she was about to take is interrupted, and her gaze returns to me; a new tear falls down her cheek, and something different appears there.

"Why do you want a broken woman? Dragon, you could have any woman in the mafia. Why did you want me, an empty woman, without what you need…" I rise quickly, annoyed by her words, and approach slowly.

"You are not as broken as you think, Little One." I raise my hand and wipe away the tear. "I chose you because the rest of my soul chose you to be mine. So, I am here in front of you to show there can still be beauty in a union."

Now, in the half-light of the bedroom, with her skin under my hands, I feel the subtle tremor running through her body. A tremor that is not of desire, but of the old ghost trying to wrench her from me.

My hands, too large, too rough for something so delicate, slide along the sides of her body, feeling the ribs under the thin satin nightgown. Each touch is calculated, slow, firm but not heavy, giving her time to retreat, to say the word I promised to respect.

She does not retreat, nor does she say "Stop."

She remains still, her breath caught, her eyes open and fixed on my face as if deciphering a dangerous code. And then, when my fingers find the curve of her waist, she whispers:

"It's different."

The phrase is a broken breath, loaded with a confusion so profound it almost makes me stop. It is not a compliment, nor is it acceptance. It is a bewildered observation of something that torments her. I know her body is conditioned to expect pain, and it still doesn't know how to live, nor can it process the absence of it.

"How is it different, Little One?" I ask, my voice a low growl against her cheek, keeping my hands motionless where they are, offering the touch without demanding more.

She swallows, and I see her eyes blinking rapidly.

"You don't squeeze. You don't seem to want to break something inside me."

The words hit me like a punch to the jaw, and I feel something break. That's what Otávio did, and seeing the surprise in her eyes at my gentler touch is becoming a puzzle to her.

"I will never want to break you, Nadja," I say, and every word is an oath etched in the steel of my will. "I want…" I hesitate, searching for the truth amid the whirlwind of possession and need inside me. "I want to put you back together…" I see the confusion in her gaze. "If there are loose pieces inside you, I want to fit them back. If there are hurt parts, I want to protect them until they heal. But break you? Never, Little One."

She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her body is still tense but seems to yield a millimeter. A single, precious millimeter. That is enough.

I continue my journey, my hands moving up to her shoulders, feeling the rigid muscles under the soft skin. I move down her arms, wrapping my fingers around her slender wrists, not to restrain, but to feel the quick pulse of life in her. Every centimeter I gain is a silent victory against the other's ghost.

But when my hands slide to her back, gently pulling her against me to feel her whole body aligned with mine, the fear returns in her, this time even stronger. I can feel her body shudder.

I see the words sinking in, and I begin to believe I'll have to repeat them many times before she feels confident. I see the conflict in her eyes. The war between the truth she knows and the possibility I'm offering.

"I need you, Nadja," I admit, and it is the most vulnerable thing I have ever said to anyone. "Not in the way he needed you. I need… to remind myself that I can still be something more than an instrument of violence. That I can care, I can respect. I need to be the man who deserves to stand beside the woman who survived hell."

I bring my hand to her face, cupping her jaw, my thumb stroking her lower lip.

"And you need specialized care. From someone who understands the ghosts he left. As soon as possible, as soon as you feel safe for it, we will seek someone. Together. A psychologist. Someone who can help you separate touch from violence, the bedroom from terror, my touch… from his."

She closes her eyes, another tear escaping. But this time, when she opens them, there is a spark of something like hope being born.

Without a word, she takes a small step. Forward, toward me, not backward as if fleeing from me.

My heart stops and then races.

She says nothing. She merely inclines her head in a new, fragile, non-verbal consent.

It is enough for me.

With a patience I draw from the depths of my being, I bring my hands to the thin straps of her nightgown. My eyes meet hers, asking and confirming if I could do this. She holds her breath, then gives an almost imperceptible nod.

I slide the soft fabric from her shoulders. The nightgown falls, and the whisper of satin against her skin excites me; the fabric forms a puddle of pale blue at her feet.

She stands before me, no longer the frightened girl huddled against the wall, but a woman who, despite everything, is choosing to stay. Her beauty takes my breath away,not just the form, but the fragile courage that keeps her standing.

I don't pull her to the bed. Instead, I lift her. My arms wrap around her legs and back, lifting her with an ease that makes her eyes widen. Only then do I carry her to our bed, feeling as though I am carrying something precious and terribly fragile. I lay her down in the middle of the mattress.

I lie down beside her, keeping a space between us.

"Just to sleep," I whisper, my face centimeters from hers on the shared pillow. "Just to prove that we can share this space without the world collapsing in your mind."

She doesn't respond. But slowly, her hand, cold and trembling, emerges and seeks mine.

When our fingers intertwine in the dark space between our bodies, something calms inside me. Seeing her a bit more peaceful after the night terror.

It is the first, tenuous thread of a bridge being built over an abyss of fear and pain. And for this night, it is enough, even though my entire body screams with the need to have hers.

And after a few minutes, she is sleeping, with her body facing me and with the need I felt, I release my fingers from hers and place my hand on her waist, nestling better against her body to sleep happily with my wife.