Chapter 9: No Door

Dragon Ironside

In that moment, something inside me solidified. Something that had nothing to do with desire, at least not in the usual sense. It was protection for a stranger and the certainty that I wouldn't be a bastard like him. But it was more than that. It was the need to take something beautiful out of the hands of someone who only knew how to break it.

When I saved Marcus from the ambush last month, when he asked what I wanted as a reward, her name left my mouth before I could think of anything else.

"The widow of Otávio. Nadja Mayer."

Marcus had raised an eyebrow, but he nodded.

"She's yours. But be careful, Dragon. Broken women break men too."

I'm not broken, but now, hearing Nadja's footsteps coming down the stairs, I wonder if maybe Marcus was right.

She enters the kitchen wearing one of my black T-shirts. On me, they fit snugly. On her, it's almost a dress, reaching midway down her thighs. Her dark hair is wet, tied back in a low ponytail. Her face is clean, no makeup, and she looks even younger than the nineteen years I know she is.

She avoids my gaze, heading straight to the sink to wash her hands. I watch her movements, hesitant at first, but she gains confidence as she opens the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients.

"What are you thinking of making?" I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.

"Salad and shrimp risotto," she answers without looking at me. "It's quick."

"All right."

I sit on one of the stools at the kitchen island and watch her work. She's efficient; she knows what she's doing. Her movements with the knife are precise and economical. This clearly isn't her first time cooking.

The silence between us is thick and heavy. She's aware of my presence. Every second, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she pauses briefly whenever I shift.

"Who taught you to cook?" I ask, trying to break the ice.

"The cook at home," she replies, still not looking at me. "I spent time in the kitchen to... to avoid being in other places."

I understand what she doesn't say. To avoid being where Otávio could find her.

"Do you like cooking?"

She pauses for a moment, the knife hovering over an onion.

"I... I think so. It's... controllable. You follow the steps and something good comes out in the end."

"Controllable." It's not a word I expected to hear, and it almost echoes in the silent kitchen. And I get it. In her world, few things were controllable. Food was probably one of them.

She resumes her work, and I fall silent, giving her space. I go to the living room, sit in the armchair, pick up the book I was reading-a treatise on the economic history of organized crime in North America-but I can't concentrate. My ears are tuned to the sounds from the kitchen: the clink of utensils, the whisper of rice being sautéed, the soft bubble of liquid simmering.

In about thirty minutes, the smell starts to spread through the house. It's a good, homey smell. A smell this house has never had. My place has always been functional-a spot to sleep, to plan, and occasionally to entertain associates. But never a home.

When she appears in the doorway to the living room, she's holding two plates.

"It's ready."

I follow her back to the kitchen. She's set the plates on the table in the small breakfast nook, a table I rarely use, preferring to eat at my desk while working.

"We'll eat here," I say, pulling out a chair.

She sits on the edge of the opposite chair, her posture rigid. She starts eating, her movements mechanical, as if fulfilling a necessary task.

I try the risotto and I'm surprised. It's good. Really good, actually. The rice is perfectly cooked, the shrimp done just right, and the flavors are balanced.

"This is great," I say, and she glances up at me for a fraction of a second before returning her eyes to her plate.

"Thank you."

We eat in silence. When I finish, she immediately stands.

"Want more?"

"Yes, please."

She refills my plate, and I keep eating. The food is good, but more than that, there's something... domesticated about this scene. Something that doesn't fit my life, the person I am. Dragon Ironside, second-in-command of Marcus's organization, eating homemade risotto prepared by a frightened wife.

That's when my phone rings. I glance at the screen-it's Aleksey, one of my men. Something must be wrong.

I answer with a brief:

"Yeah."

"Boss, we've got a problem at the south warehouse. The Canadians are testing the boundaries again."

"How many?"

"Three that we've seen. But we suspect more."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

I hang up and stand. Nadja is looking at me, her plate almost untouched.

"Nadja, I have to go out. I'll handle something and be back in half an hour."

She nods, her eyes downcast.

I stare at her for a moment before continuing:

"You know where the bedrooms are. I'd like you to choose to stay in the same room as me, but I'll understand if you don't. So I hope I don't find you sleeping somewhere else."

It's a test, though I'm not sure what I'm testing. Her obedience? Her courage? Her willingness to accept the inevitable?

Without waiting for a response, I wash my plate and silverware. When I turn around, she's still standing in the same spot, watching me with those big, frightened eyes.

"I won't be long," I say, and I leave before I can say or do anything else.

The night air is cold when I step outside, a reminder that we're in Montana, not the tropics where Nadja's family is from. I get in the car, start the engine, and only then let a long, weary sigh escape my lips.

What am I doing?

This wasn't the reaction I expected. In fact, I don't even know what I expected. Resistance, maybe. Tears for sure. Perhaps even a desperate panic attack. But not this frightened apathy, this ghostly obedience that feels more disturbing than any rebellion.

I drive to the south warehouse, my mind split between the Canadian problem and the woman I left at home. In my bed, soon.

When I arrive, Aleksey is waiting, his face tense under the dim security lights.

"They're out back," he says, pointing toward the rear fence. "They haven't tried to come in yet, just watching."

"Let them watch," I say, taking the binoculars he offers. "But if they cross the fence, we know what to do."

I watch the three dark figures standing beyond the perimeter. They're young and impatient. New to the game, probably. The Canadians are probing, sending recruits to gauge our response.

"Double the watch tonight," I instruct Aleksey. "If they make any move, let us know. But don't shoot first. We don't want a territorial war right now."

"Understood, boss."

I stay another half hour, checking defenses, talking to the men. The routine is comforting in its familiarity. This is a language I understand well. Talking about territory, loyalty, strength. It's simple. Direct.

But when I get back in the car, the simplicity fades, replaced by the complexity of what's waiting at home.

And when I return home, the house is quiet as I enter. The kitchen lights are off; only a faint nightlight in the hallway guides me to the bedroom.

The door is closed. I place my hand on the knob, hesitate for a moment, and then turn it.

The room is dark, just the light from the bathroom filtering through the slightly open door. And in the bed, under the covers, is Nadja. She's facing away from the door, her body a small lump under the duvet.

I undress quietly, slipping into just a pair of shorts. Then I go to the other side of the bed and lie down.

The mattress dips under my weight, and I immediately feel her body go rigid. She's not asleep. She was waiting for me, dreading this moment.

I lie on my back, staring at the dark ceiling.

"Nadja," I say, my voice low in the darkness.

She doesn't respond, but I can feel her sharpened attention, like an animal sensing danger.

"I'm not going to touch you," I say, the words coming out more abruptly than I intended. "Not tonight. Not until you're ready to be touched by me."

The silence that follows is absolute. Then, after a long moment, I hear a small sound-a muffled sob. She's crying again, but this time, there's something different in the tears. It's not just fear. It's... confusion, and maybe relief mixed with disbelief.

I lie there, listening to her cry quietly in the dark. My fists clench in the sheets. I want to say something or do something, but every word that comes to mind feels inadequate and false.

So finally, I say the only thing that feels true:

"You're safe here, Nadja. At least from that threat, you're safe with me."

She doesn't reply. After a while, her crying subsides. I know she won't sleep, at least not with me beside her.

I stay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the walls I've built around myself over the years-walls of violence, control, isolation. And thinking about the woman now lying beside me in my bed, whose own walls are made of fear and trauma.

Two fortresses, and between them...

No door.

And I wonder, in the quiet of the night, if either of us will ever find a way out.