Deal With Her Dragon

by Ruby Sirois

  I imagine myself as her, and my chin goes up just a touch, donning my imaginary starlet’s confidence like a tiara. The sharp click-click of my high heels echoes across the cool marble, a counterbeat clashing with the pounding of my heart.

  As I wait for the slow old brass-gated elevator, my reflection stares back at me, framed by an extravagantly carved and gilded mirror. She fiddles with her earrings, adjusts the hang of her purse, smoothes down her fifties-styled emerald wiggle dress with both palms. The dress hugs every curve, and she is a femme fatale with perfect hair and makeup. I hardly recognize her, but I love what I see.

  When the velvet-lined elevator car arrives with a musical ding, I smile at my reflection.

  Don’t be nervous, she says, smiling back. Just look at me. Nothing to worry about.

  Thanks, gorgeous, I reply, and give her a little wink of approval.

  * * *

  My dragon’s eyes widen when he opens the door, taking me slowly in from head to toe.

  “Emelie.”

  His tone says everything I need to hear, hope to hear. My reflection was right, of course.

  “Do you like it?” I do a little half-twirl, hand on hip like a model.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you in anything like it. So no, I don’t like it—I love it.”

  Ragnarr pulls me into his arms. His big body is hard against me. The heat of him radiates through the silk jersey of my dress and my body reacts as if he flipped a switch in me.

  “But I think it’ll look even better on the floor,” he murmurs in my ear, trailing a line of kisses down the sensitive skin by my ear.

  I shiver. It’s everything I can do to pull myself away.

  “Maybe I can have the courtesy of a grand tour before my ravishment?”

  He’s already set my body on fire, but if I give in now I don’t know how I’ll be able to look myself in the mirror tomorrow morning. Somehow, I need the semblance of calmness to keep my dignity intact.

  A mocking little smile. Hot blue eyes flick down to my lips, then back up to meet my gaze. He sees right through me. I rub damp palms against the slick silk of my dress once more and smile, projecting a confidence I don’t feel.

  Fake it ’til you make it, Em.

  * * *

  Huge and luxurious, the penthouse’s double-high ceilings are decorated with ornaments similar to the ones downstairs.

  Ragnarr notices me examining one inset in the formal dining room with the profile of a helmeted woman which I suppose is a depiction of Athena.

  “You like the style?”

  “I do, actually.”

  “It’s quite out of fashion nowadays. Some people would probably think I should tear it all down and modernize.”

  I shudder in horror, only half-feigned. “I guess I just have old-fashioned taste, but I always think it’s a shame when gorgeous architecture like this gets ripped down and replaced with horrible modern Ikea-looking crap.”

  My own much more modest apartment was built in the 1940’s, and still has all the original cabinet- and doorknobs—all of which I wouldn’t dream of switching out.

  “If I get a say, don’t you dare touch it. It would be a crime.”

  “Considering I’m old-fashioned by about a thousand years, I’ll take that as a compliment to my exquisite taste.”

  “Oh, but you don’t look a day over six hundred.”

  I beam innocently up at him, and he laughs. The sound is genuine and full, and so light-hearted that it makes me happy just to hear it.

  “You watch yourself, häxan min, if you don’t want to earn yourself a spanking.”

  “Who says I don’t?” My cheeks are hot, but I just can’t resist.

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  Ragnarr’s tone gives nothing away, but he gives me a wink. My knees wobble just a bit.

  * * *

  A huge four-poster bed in mahogany dominates the masculine bedroom, draped in navy silk with cream and gold accents. There’s a deep fireplace with a marble mantle, same color as the polished floor downstairs. A warm breeze flutters through the sheer white curtains covering floor-to-ceiling windows which open up onto a balcony with a scrolled-iron railing.

  I step outside to check out the view. It faces south over the city, and the sun hangs low and orange on the horizon behind the skyline. There’s an elegant patio set, and even a little outdoor space heater.

  Far below is the susurrant drone of evening city traffic.

  “So romantic,” I say. “Feels Parisian. It’s just begging for coffee and croissants out here.”

  “Already inviting yourself to stay for breakfast?”

  I open my mouth to deny it, but can’t find the words. I don’t really want to.

  “Maybe,” I say. “I suppose there are worse places to be tied up and sweetly tortured in. But I guess I’d settle for waking up like a normal person.”

  “Well, I could keep you up all night if you prefer. Now that you mention it, sweet torture is an interesting idea.”

  “I stopped pulling all-nighters after I graduated college, but that does sound intriguing.”

  “So bold, häxan. I like this side of you.”

  “Just this side?”

  “I’ll take the three-hundred-sixty degree view too, if that’s on the menu.”

  He reaches for me. I smile up at him, then dance just out of his grasp, laughing as I pretend to run away into the hall. He shakes his head, fighting back a smile as he follows close behind.

  “Speaking of menus,” I say over my shoulder, “what have you made for dinner? Something smells amazing.”

  I’m suddenly starving.

  “Well, I personally didn’t make it. That’s what I have Malin for.” I must look taken aback, because he adds, “Don’t look so worried, lilla häxan. She cooks for me, nothing more. Malin?” Ragnarr calls, guiding me back toward the dining room. “Will you come and introduce the menu, please?”

  Malin meets us in the hall. She’s probably in her early sixties, short and blonde with round pink cheeks, and she wears a white chef’s coat like she was born in it. Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she then tucks it over one arm with practiced elegance.

  “Hello, I’m Malin.” She sticks out her hand, and I shake it. Her hand is calloused, but her grip is light. “I’m Ragnarr’s personal chef. I’ll also be serving you for dinner tonight.”

  “I’m Emelie, it’s so nice to meet you. It smells delicious in here! I’m dying to know what you’ve made.”

  “To start, there’s a medley of crispy tempura vegetables with a Japanese-style dipping sauce, served with a crisp off-dry riesling. Your main is rack of spring lamb with a mint-balsamic reduction, rosemary potatoes dauphinoise, and grilled plums. I’ve paired that with a spicy, full-bodied Australian shiraz.”

  My stomach growls, and I blush. Malin only smiles, recognizing a fellow foodie.

  “And I have been told how much you like creamy desserts, so I’ve made crème brûlée scented with vanilla and tonka bean, and a sorbet sampler on the side: green tea, mango, and lychee. With that, I’ve paired a fine twenty-five-year-old Tokaji which I think you’ll find delightful.”

  My eyes are probably popping out of my head.

  “That sounds divine.” I’ve only had this kind of meal at a five-star restaurant.

  “I hope you’ll enjoy it. So, please, if you’ll go and get comfortable, I’ll get you started right away.”

  * * *

  Ragnarr leads me through into the dining room and pulls out my chair for me. The immense table could seat at least sixteen, but now it is set just at one end with cut-crystal stemware, bone china, crisply pressed linen napkins, and antique silverware which I’m pretty sure is made of actual silver.

  I’m almost afraid to touch anything. Everything looks like it should be in a museum. Even my chair is alarmingly delicate, its shapely legs carved with intricate Rococo swirls and upholstered in light blue silk.

  To my relief, I find it’s sturd
ier than it looks.

  “I’ve noticed you enjoy collecting antiques. Everything you own looks like an auction piece.”

  I arrange my napkin neatly in my lap. I don’t think I’ve seen one object in the entire apartment that isn’t at least three times my age.

  “Well,” he says, “since I am one…”

  A giggle escapes me over the unexpected joke.

  He is pleased to have amused me.

  “I’ve been collecting for a very long time.”

  A meaningful pause.

  “I see something I like, I do anything it takes to acquire it.”

  His gaze on me is smoldering. My dress is tasteful, but I feel naked. I squirm, my face hot, not knowing what to do with my hands. Ragnarr is about to say something, but Malin saves me with the first course.

  She places the plate in front of me from the right, her serving manner impeccable. It’s clear she’s a professional; she could be serving the king and queen. I sit up a little straighter; I feel I should act the part.

  After serving the other plate to Ragnarr, Malin returns with a carafe of pale white wine. She pours me a sample, and I taste it.

  It’s bursting with pear, pineapple, and white flowers, a perfect touch of sweetness enhancing the fruit flavors. I nod, and she pours us both full glasses before disappearing back into the kitchen.

  “I hope you enjoy being spoiled,” Ragnarr says, dipping a piece of tempura in the dark sauce.

  “Oh?” I have to laugh. “Of course I do. What woman doesn’t?”

  “And here I thought you weren’t like all the others.”

  “Shame on you. I’m better than the others.”

  “I’m glad you finally realize it.”

  “Why, what did you have in mind?”

  “Malin never serves anything but the best, but I made it very clear that I wanted something extra special for you.”

  “As opposed to the proletarian slop you serve to the everyday battalions of women you usually bring home?”

  He snorts. “Very funny, häxan. Believe it or not, I’ve never brought a woman here.”

  I do find that hard to believe, but I push the thought aside and focus on my plate.

  The tempura is tender-crisp, light and delicious. I’m unsure what the vegetables are at first, hidden as they are by the batter. Each new bite is a delightful surprise. Creamy butternut squash… broccoli… carrot… tart apple.

  Rich with umami flavor and redolent of fresh ginger and chili, the dipping sauce is almost good enough to drink. I don’t, but I settle for making good use of it with the last piece of tempura squash, soft and sweet on the inside.

  The wine heightens the food’s Asian flavors, adding the final touch of sweetness that is just slightly lacking in the food itself.

  I have barely set my cutlery down when Malin sweeps in to remove the dishes. Ragnarr is also finished, wiping his mouth with crisp linen and looking a bit like he wishes he’d have been tasting me instead.

  “Thank you, Malin,” I say as she brings the next course. “That was the best tempura I’ve ever had.”

  I mean it, too.

  She gives me a genuine smile. “I’m so glad you liked it.”

  * * *

  I slice into my lamb, finding the inside a bright and juicy medium-rare. I dab up a bit of the reduction sauce, and the delicious flavors burst in my mouth. The lamb is exquisitely tender and sweet. A fresh burst of mint adds brightness, and the balsamic reduction is sweet and rich, complementing the earthy flavors of the lamb.

  Potatoes are my weakness, and the dauphinoise is no exception. Buttery, rich with cheese and redolent of earthy rosemary, the potatoes nearly melt on my tongue.

  The grilled plums, crispy with caramelized sugars and dripping with juice, act as a sharp counterpart to the creamy potatoes. Their sweet-sour flesh cuts through the heavy richness and refreshes my palate.

  The shiraz is full-bodied, bursting with dark plum and cherry, a hint of leather and earth weaving through and tying everything together.

  “Feeling spoiled yet?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  My mouth is full of an extra-cheesy bite of potatoes dauphinoise. I swallow, dab at my mouth delicately.

  “If this is what it feels like to be a part of your hoard, I’m not so sure I’m not interested.”

  “Häxan min,” Ragnarr says. His eyes fix on mine, inscrutable. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to tease a dragon?”

  “I’ve been doing it all day, I haven’t lost a finger yet.”

  “Oh, just you wait. There are a few parts of you I wouldn’t mind gobbling up.”

  “How disappointing. I had hoped you would savor me slowly once you got to that point.”

  He groans. “What was that about sweet torture?”

  “I’m just enjoying having power over a dragon. Let me have my moment.”

  “Nothing comes free, so enjoy it while you can.”

  * * *

  The first two courses were delicious, but dessert is what really shines.

  I crack through the crème brûlée’s hard brown surface with my delicate silver dessert spoon to reveal the soft, creamy custard beneath. It’s peppered with tiny black flecks of vanilla and tonka bean, smooth and luxurious with hints of almond and spice.

  And each small spoonful of sorbet is like a different chord of a melody, pairing in different harmonious ways with the crème brûlée. The Tokaji, with its exotic aromas of ginger and saffron, adds an acidic burst of apricot and tangerine to the heavy sweetness of the custard.

  “Malin is a genius.”

  I dab at my mouth with my napkin and sigh, sated after scraping up the last mouthful of half-melted sorbet.

  “That was incredible.”

  Ragnarr is pleased. “I like seeing you satisfied.”

  “Is everything that comes out of your mouth a double entendre?”

  “Nej, but everything that goes into it is.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Just tell me to stop if you don’t like it.”

  I purse my lips, but I just can’t make myself say it.

  “Fine, I admit it,” I say, my tone a parody of sarcasm. “I love it and I don’t want you to stop.”

  “Good. I’ll remember that for later.”

  * * *

  Ragnarr’s library greets us with a cheerfully roaring fire. A study in Nordic hygge, the butter-soft leather couch is piled thickly with sheepskin throw pillows and fluffy blankets.

  I sit, perching on the edge of the seat cushion. I pluck at invisible bits of lint on my skirt, trying to pose myself just so as Ragnarr pours himself a glass from a sparkling cut-crystal decanter.

  I know I don’t need to still be self-conscious around him, but it’s an old habit and hard to break.

  “Is that whisky?”

  “It’s fifty-year-old Scotch.”

  “Are you going to pour me a glass?”

  He cocks an eyebrow at me, considering. “I don’t want you drunk.”

  I’m a bit offended. And even more self-conscious.

  “I’m not drunk.”

  “What I mean, häxan, is that I want you fully consenting. Fully aware.”

  My cheeks grow hot as I realize what he’s implying. What he’s referring to.

  “Just because we have a deal doesn’t mean I fancy collecting payments from a passed-out witch. Not my idea of a good time.”

  “I am.” My voice is almost too quiet even for me to hear.

  He smiles inquisitively at me over his glass, which reflects sharp flashes of gold and bronze from its facets in the firelight.

  “I said, I am. Consenting and fully aware.”

  The look he gives me could set an icicle ablaze—and I’m no icicle.

  “And I’d still like a glass of that Scotch. You know I can’t pass up a chance to try it.”

  “A witch after my own tastes.”

  There is grudging admiration in his voice. I suppose not many women would be into that kind of t
hing. Again I find myself wondering about the kinds of women that he supposedly never brought home.

  Try not to be too jealous, Emelie. After all, I’m here and they never were, right?

  He uncorks the decanter, pours me a scant finger. I notice the short pour, but appreciate that he is trying to, in his way, protect me.

  Ragnarr wants me. Aware. Alert. Consenting.

  The realization makes me tingle. I cross my legs, very conscious of my growing wetness. He sinks down gracefully on the arm of the couch next to me and hands me the glass.

  “Skål,” he says.

  I accept the glass and give it an assessing sniff. Sweet and smoky, with a rich, leathery alcohol heat. Orange, fig, a hint of Highland sunshine.

  “To what?”

  “To how extremely beautiful you are. In that dress. And every day since the day I met you.”

  His words are a fire arrow shot right into my heart. I melt inside.

  “How about skål to you as well, and how fucking gorgeous you are.”

  Yet again, any diplomacy has been carved away by the slight buzz of alcohol, but I can’t be upset about it. It’s the truth, after all. Ragnarr is a vision, posing oh-so-casually on the padded arm of the Art Deco couch with rocks glass in hand like a magazine editorial model. He looks every bit the demi-god he is, and those ice-blue eyes are molten with desire.

  He salutes me ironically with his glass, sips his drink, but his gaze never leaves me.

  I sip. The Scotch is smoother than I expected, with a creamy flavor of smoke-tinged oak that crosses into a hint of vanilla-dipped roses. It reminds me of the crème brûlée from earlier, except far more complex and grown-up.

  I open my mouth to say so, but Ragnarr takes the glass from my hand and sets it aside. Plunges his fingers into my hair, pulls me to him.

  His tongue is hot and wet, and I part my lips for him eagerly. He tastes of smoke and cream and cinnamon, and the rich spicy scent of him fills my senses.

  I sigh, and he breathes me in, as if my breath is a life-saving tonic. In turn, his essence is the only thing keeping me alive. I do all I can to absorb it into myself, to imprint the feel of him under my skin like a tattoo. I feel him there, pulsing, right next to my heartbeat.