Chapter 23: Ghosts Before Breakfast

Nadja Ironside

His touch still echoes on my skin, a warmth that lingers even after his fingers have left. Waking with Dragon was different. Not an invasion as I was used to, but in a gentle way and, above all, always his gaze asking me.

His fingers traced the line of my hip under the sheet, a slow glide that made my whole body contract not from fear, but with a desire so sudden and overwhelming it stole my breath. Otávio never touched me like that. He would grab me, mark me, and take me with force. Dragon's hand is soft. And my body, this traitor I learned to ignore, to hate, whispered a response before my mind could intervene.

I almost told him to stop. But it was the words "don't stop" stuck in my throat that formed a knot, as I felt a pure, animalistic impulse. It was when his hand moved up, seeking not my breast, but the curve of my shoulder, the place where the collarbone meets the arm. And there, under his fingers, a raised memory of a "no" spoken long ago that ended with the sound of bone against the wood of a desk.

My body went rigid. Panic, an old acquaintance, flooded my mouth with a metallic taste. But, God forgive me, beneath the panic and beneath the memory of pain, that warm, wet part of me still pulsed, wanting that hand to go down again, to ignore the maps of destruction imprinted on me by another man and to claim the territory of my entire body.

But Dragon stopped. I don't know if he read the rigidity of my body or felt the different texture of my skin. His eyes, which had been a stormy color before, were now so soft as they searched my face. He rose from the bed after leaving a kiss on the tip of my nose and saying I should go back to sleep.

How could I go back to sleep when my body was on fire from his touch, one I had never experienced. I saw his imposing body casting a shadow that enveloped me for a second, and then he went towards the bathroom. The door didn't close, but no sound came from there either.

Until the sound of the shower water started; it was a white, almost inviting noise.

Air, I needed air.

I pulled the satin duvet up to my chin, feeling the cold fabric against the skin he had warmed. My heart hammered a rhythm of guilt and confusion. What was I doing?

I am married to him. Even if he bought me from those who swore they would keep me protected. Poisonous snakes…

This desire I am feeling is fragile and dangerous. Otávio taught me that desire and pain were conjoined twins; where there is one, the other always is. Was Dragon trying to teach me the opposite? Is that a lesson I could risk believing?

The water continued to run in the other room and I began to think. This is my chance to find out if I can be a different Nadja from the woman who survived the husband who destroyed her from the inside. I push the duvet aside and get up, my feet touching the soft rug on my side of the bed. The room is large and opulent, but strangely cozy, and for some reason I like it here.

I pass the open closet and, inevitably, my image is captured by the full-length mirror that stands between the two walls of cabinets with our belongings.

I stop upon seeing my reflection and take a deep breath. The woman in the mirror stares back at me with large eyes in a face that is beginning to lose its paleness, gaining a flush from the recent excitement. I was wearing only panties; my breasts, which Dragon sucked with such tenderness, still bear marks from bites and from various slaps that always ended up scratched or with small cuts because of his rings.

I can see all the scars. The jagged silver line on the rib. The more subtle marks, almost like shadows, on the thighs. The small groove near the hip, where those damned rings left their permanent marks.

They are my stories of pain and terror. Dragon has seen them, and I want him to see them today. He has already felt one, but to see them all as I want is a much deeper unveiling, and I know I need to do this.

I swallow dryly. I know he wants to live a real married life, but at this moment he accepts that appearances are better. And that is something I can provide. I walk to the bathroom. The water was still falling and I stand still.

The hot steam and the scent of his soap, something woody and fresh, envelop me. He is standing with his head pressed against the tile, the water hitting his back, and his hand was making back-and-forth movements on a large, hard erection. The thoughts of touching make me take a step forward.

His back is broad, a canvas of defined muscles and his own scars. Darker lines, marks of something that was not accidental. He turns and his eyes meet mine. There is no surprise, no embarrassment about what he was doing.

"Nadja," he calls.

My name left his mouth, in the damp half-light of the bathroom, not as a simple syllable. There is a hoarse groan, an invocation that dissolves in the hot mist and sticks to my skin. I remain still, still looking at his naked body.

I see when he opens his eyes.

He finally notices me in the center of the bathroom, wrapped in the mist emanating from the open shower stall. Wearing only white panties, revealing all the scars that tell stories I don't know if I will ever tell.

His dark, wet hair drips onto his broad shoulders. His eyes are no longer those of a commander and a protector. They are wide, darkened by an inner storm, and fixed on me. My gaze is fixed on the movements he is making with his hand, a back-and-forth rhythm that, moments before, was tracing unconscious paths on my own skin, trying to warm my body for something I perceive to be a need for both of us.

The shock is an ice that pours through my veins, followed immediately by a wave of fire. I should cover myself and run. But that is not what I do. The shock on his face does not paralyze me with fear; on the contrary, it holds me there. It takes the act from the realm of my solitary secret and throws it into a shared space, charged with electricity. His raw expression of desire makes something inside me tremble and expand.

He does not cover himself. He does not look away. And neither do I.

"You are breathtaking."

His voice is a rough drag, marked by the hot water and by something deeper, more dangerous. Each word seems carved in the air and branded with fire. I feel it in my chest, like a physical touch.

"I desire you even in pain, Nadja. To the insanity of my being."

The confession is a blade that cuts and exposes me. I swallow dryly, my hands trembling slightly. He takes a step forward, out of the shower. Water runs down the defined grooves of his abdomen, forming puddles on the cold floor at his feet. My feet are rooted to the ground. I do not retreat. My gaze is locked on his, a magnetic force that overrides any instinct to flee.

"I imagine how warm you must be inside… tight… a sweet hell and mine alone."

A shiver runs down my spine, not from fear, but from recognition. He names the beast that also grows within me, a confused and overwhelming desire I hardly dared admit. I see his hand moving, an intimate, hypnotic rhythm on his erection under my fixed gaze. My breathing quickens, becoming audible. I feel my breasts rising rapidly, the nipples hardening into two points of acute sensation. I know he sees. His gaze darkens even more.

"I want you, Little One. Your hot cunt squeezing me until I no longer know where I end and you begin."

The vulgarity of the words should offend me. Instead, they set me ablaze. They are honest. Brutal and true. They shatter the last barriers of convention between us. He is one step away from me now. The heat from his body almost burns me. His scent envelops my senses.