by Anna Zaires
The chill running over my skin transforms into full-on goosebumps. This side of Julian terrifies me, and I clasp my hands together under the table to prevent them from shaking. “You told me you saw a therapist after your parents’ death. Because you wanted to kill more.”
“Yes, my pet.” There is a savage gleam in his blue eyes. “I killed the cartel leaders and their families, and when it was all over, I thirsted for more blood . . . more death. The craving inside me only intensified during the years that I’d been away; leading a so-called ‘normal’ life made it worse, not better.” He pauses, and I shudder at the black shadows I see in his gaze. “Seeing a therapist was a last-ditch attempt to fight against my nature, and it didn’t take me long to realize that it was futile—that the only way to move forward was to embrace it and accept my fate.”
“And you did that by going into arms dealing.” I try to keep my voice steady. “By becoming a criminal.”
At that moment, Ana comes into the dining room and begins to clear the dishes off the table. Watching her, I slowly rub my arms, trying to dispel the coldness within me. In a way, it makes it worse, the fact that Julian had a choice and that he consciously chose to embrace the darkest part of himself. It tells me there is no hope for redemption, no chance of making him see the error of his ways. It’s not that he never knew there was an alternative to a life of crime; on the contrary, he had experienced such an alternative and decided to reject it.
“Would you like anything else?” Ana asks us, and I shake my head mutely, too disturbed to think about dessert. Julian, however, asks for a cup of hot chocolate, sounding as unruffled as ever.
When Ana exits the room, Julian smiles at me, as though sensing the direction of my thoughts. “I was always a criminal, Nora,” he says softly. “I killed for the first time when I was eight, and I knew then that there would be no going back. I tried to bury that knowledge for a while, but it was always there, waiting for me to come to my senses.” He leans back in his seat, his posture indolent, yet predatory, like the lazy sprawl of a jungle cat. “The truth of the matter is I need this kind of life, my pet. The danger, the violence—and the power that comes with it all—they suit me in a way that a boring corporate job could never have.” He pauses, then adds, his eyes glittering, “They make me feel alive.”
* * *
When we get to the bedroom that evening, I go to take a quick shower while Julian responds to a couple of urgent work emails on his iPad. By the time I come out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my damp body, he’s put the tablet away and is beginning to undress. As he pulls off his shirt, I sense an unusual excitement within him, a pent-up energy in his movements that hadn’t been there before.
“What happened?” I ask warily, our earlier conversation fresh in my mind. Things that excite Julian are, more often than not, something that would make me shudder. Pausing by the bed, I adjust the towel, strangely reluctant to bare myself to his gaze quite yet.
He gives me a brilliant smile as he sits down on the bed to take off his socks. “Do you remember when I told you we had some intelligence on two Al-Quadar cells?” When I nod, he says, “Well, we succeeded in destroying them and even captured three terrorists in the process. Lucas is having them brought here for questioning, so they’ll be arriving in the morning.”
“Oh.” I stare at him, my stomach churning with an unsettling mix of emotions. I understand what ‘questioning’ implies in Julian’s world. I should be horrified and disgusted by the idea that my husband will most likely torture those men—and I am—but deep inside, I also feel a kind of sick, vengeful joy. It’s an emotion that disturbs me a lot more than the thought of Julian interrogating them tomorrow. I know these men are not the same ones who murdered Beth, but that doesn’t change the way I feel about them. There is a part of me that wants them to pay for Beth’s death . . . to suffer for what Majid did.
Apparently misinterpreting my reaction, Julian rises to his feet and says softly, “Don’t worry, my pet. They won’t hurt you—I’ll make sure of that.” And before I can respond, he pushes down his jeans to reveal a growing erection.
At the sight of his naked body, a wave of desire washes over me, heating me from the inside out despite my mental turmoil. Over the past couple of weeks, Julian has regained some of the muscle he lost during his coma, and he’s even more stunning than before, his shoulders impossibly broad and his skin darkly tanned from the hot sun. Raising my eyes to his face, I wonder for the hundredth time how someone so beautiful can carry such evil inside—and whether some of that evil is beginning to rub off on me.
“I know they won’t hurt me here,” I say quietly as he reaches for me. “I’m not afraid of them.”
A sardonic half-smile appears on his lips as he tugs the towel off my body, dropping it carelessly on the floor. “Are you afraid of me?” he murmurs, stepping closer to me. Lifting his hands, he cups my breasts in his large palms and squeezes them, his thumbs playing with my nipples. As he gazes down at me, I notice an amused, yet slightly cruel glint in his blue eyes.
“Should I be?” My heartbeat picks up, my core clenching at the feel of his hard cock brushing against my stomach. His hands are hot and rough on the sensitive skin of my bare breasts, and I inhale sharply as my nipples tighten under his touch. “Are you going to hurt me tonight?”
“Is that what you want, my pet?” He pinches my nipples forcefully, then rolls them between his fingers, causing me to bite back a moan of pleasure tinged with pain. His voice deepens, turning dark and seductive. “Do you want me to hurt you . . . to mark your soft skin and make you scream?”
I lick my lips, tremors of heat and anxious excitement running through my body. I should be frightened, particularly after our conversation tonight, but I’m desperately aroused instead. As perverse as it is, I want this too—I want the ferocity of his desire, the cruelty of his affection. I want to lose myself in the twisted rapture of his embrace, to forget about right and wrong and simply feel. “Yes,” I whisper, for the first time admitting to my own dark needs—to the aberrant craving he has instilled in me. “Yes, I do . . .”
Heat flares in his eyes, savage and volcanic, and then we’re tumbling to the bed in a primal tangle of limbs and flesh. There’s no trace of the deceptively gentle lover now, or of the sophisticated sadist who manipulates my mind and body every night. No, this Julian is pure male lust, untamed and uncontrolled.
His hands roam over my body, and his mouth is on me, licking, sucking, and biting every inch of my flesh. His left hand finds its way between my thighs, and one big finger pushes into me, making me gasp as he ruthlessly drives it in and out of my wet, quivering sex. He’s rough, but the heat inside me only intensifies, and I rake my nails down his back, desperate for more as we roll on the bed, going at each other like animals.
I end up on my back, pinned by his muscled body, my arms stretched above my head and my wrists caught in the iron grip of his right hand. It’s the position of the conquered, yet my heart pounds with anticipation rather than fear at the look of predatory hunger on his face.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he says harshly, his knees wedging between my thighs and spreading them wide. There’s no seduction in his voice now, only raw, aggressive need. “I’m going to fuck you until you beg for mercy—and then I’m going to fuck you more. Do you understand me?”
I manage a tiny nod, my chest heaving as I stare up at him. My breathing is coming fast and hard, and my skin burns where his body touches me. For a moment, I can feel the throbbing length of his erection brushing against the inside of my thigh, the broad head smooth and velvety, and then he grasps his cock with his free hand and guides it to my entrance.
I’m wet, but nowhere near ready for the brutal thrust with which he joins our bodies, and a shock of pain lashes at my nerve endings as he slams into me, nearly splitting me in half. A cry escapes my throat and my inner muscles tighten, resisting the vicious penetration, but he doesn’t give me any time to adjust. Instead
he sets a hard, bruising pace, claiming me with a violence that leaves me shaken and breathless, helpless to do anything but accept the relentless pounding of my body.
I don’t know how long he fucks me like this—or how many times I come from the battering force of his thrusts. All I know is that by the time he reaches his peak, shuddering over me, I’m hoarse from screaming and so sore that it hurts when he pulls out of me, the wetness of his semen stinging my abraded flesh.
I’m also too worn out to move, so he gets up and goes to the bathroom, returning with a cool, wet towel. Pressing it against my swollen sex, he gently cleans me, then goes down on me, his lips and tongue forcing my exhausted body into another orgasm.
And then we sleep, entwined in each other’s arms.
Chapter 12
Julian
The next morning I wake up when the sunlight touches my face. I deliberately left the drapes open last night, wanting to get an early start on the day. Light works better than any alarm with me, and it’s far less disruptive to Nora, who’s sleeping draped across my chest.
For a few minutes, I just lie there, luxuriating in the feel of her warm skin pressed against mine, in the soft exhalations of her breath and the way her long lashes lie like dark crescents on her cheeks. I had never wanted to sleep with a woman before her, had never understood the appeal of having another person in your bed for anything but fucking. It was only when I acquired my captive that I learned the simple pleasure of drifting off to sleep while holding her sleek little body . . . of feeling her next to me throughout the night.
Taking a deep breath, I gently shift Nora off me. I need to get up, though the temptation to lie there and do nothing is strong. She doesn’t wake up when I sit up, just rolls onto her side and continues sleeping, the blanket sliding off her body and leaving her back largely exposed to my gaze. Unable to resist, I lean over to kiss one slender shoulder and notice a few scratches and bruises marring her smooth skin—marks that I must’ve inflicted on her last night.
It turns me on, seeing them on her. I like the idea of branding her in some way, of leaving signs of my possession on her delicate flesh. She already wears my ring, but it’s not enough. I want more. With each passing day, my need for her grows, my obsession with her intensifying rather than lessening with time.
It disturbs me, this development. I had been hoping that seeing Nora every day and having her as my wife would quell this desperate hunger I feel for her all the time, but just the opposite seems to be happening. I resent every minute that I spend away from her, every moment that I’m not touching her. Just like with any addiction, I seem to require larger and larger doses of my chosen drug, my dependence on her increasing until I’m constantly craving my next fix.
I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost her. It’s a fear that makes me wake up in a cold sweat at night and assaults my mind at random times throughout the day. I know that she’s safe here on the estate—nothing short of a direct attack by a full-fledged army can penetrate my security—but I still can’t help worrying, can’t help fearing that she’ll be taken from me somehow. It’s insane, but I’m tempted to keep her chained to my side at all times, so I would know she’s okay.
Casting one last look at her sleeping form, I get up as quietly as I can and head into the shower, forcing my thoughts away from my obsession. I will see Nora again this evening, but first, there is an overnight delivery that requires my attention. As my mind turns to the upcoming task, I smile with grim anticipation.
My Al-Quadar prisoners are waiting.
* * *
Lucas had them brought to a storage shed on the far edge of the property. The first thing I notice as I walk in is the stench. It’s an acrid combination of sweat, blood, urine, and desperation. It tells me that Peter has already been hard at work this morning.
As my eyes adjust to the dim light inside the shed, I see that two of the men are tied to metal chairs, while the third is hanging from a hook in the ceiling, strung up by a rope binding his wrists above his head. All three of them are covered in dirt and blood, making it difficult to tell their age or nationality.
I approach one of the seated ones first. His left eye is swollen shut, and his lips are puffy and encrusted with blood. His right eye, though, is glaring at me with fury and defiance. A young man, I decide, studying him closer. Early twenties or late teens, with a straggly attempt at a beard and close-trimmed black hair. I doubt he’s anything more than a foot soldier, but I still intend to question him. Even small fish can occasionally swallow useful bits of information—and then regurgitate them if prompted properly.
“His name is Ahmed,” a deep, faintly accented voice says behind me. Turning, I see Peter standing there, his face as expressionless as always. The fact that I didn’t spot him right away doesn’t surprise me; Peter Sokolov excels at lurking in the shadows. “He was recruited six months ago in Pakistan.”
An even smaller fish than I expected, then. I’m disappointed, but not surprised.
“What about this one?” I ask, walking to the other man in a chair. He appears a bit older, closer to thirty, his thin face clean-shaven. Like Ahmed, he’s been roughed up a bit, but there is no fury in his gaze as he looks at me. There is only icy hatred.
“John, also known as Yusuf. Born in America to Palestinian immigrants, recruited by Al-Quadar five years ago. That’s all I got out of that one thus far,” Peter says, pointing at the man hanging on the hook. “John himself hasn’t talked to me yet.”
“Of course.” I stare at John, inwardly pleased by this development. If he’s trained to withstand a significant amount of pain and torture, then he’s at least a mid-level operative. If we manage to crack him, I’m certain we’ll be able to get some valuable insights.
“And this one is Abdul.” Peter gestures toward the hanging man. “He’s Ahmed’s cousin. Supposedly, he joined Al-Quadar last week.”
Last week? If that’s true, the man is all but useless. Frowning, I walk up to him to take a closer look. At my approach, he tenses, and I see that his face is one massive, swollen bruise. He also reeks of urine. As I pause in front of him, he begins to babble in Arabic, his voice filled with fear and desperation.
“He says he told us all he knows.” Peter comes to stand next to me. “Claims he only joined his cousin because they promised to give his family two goats. Swears he’s not a terrorist, never wanted to hurt anyone in his life, has nothing against America, et cetera, et cetera.”
I nod, having gathered that much myself. I don’t speak Arabic, but I understand some of it. A cold smile stretches my lips as I take a Swiss army knife out of my back pocket and pull out a small blade. At the sight of the knife, Abdul yanks frantically at the ropes holding him up, and his pleas grow in volume. He’s clearly as green as they come—which makes me inclined to believe that he’s telling the truth about not knowing anything.
It doesn’t matter, though. All I need from him is information, and if he can’t provide it, he’s a dead man. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else?” I ask him, slowly twirling the knife between my fingers. “Perhaps something you might’ve seen, heard, come across? Any names, faces, anything of that sort?”
Peter translates my question, and Abdul shakes his head, tears and snot running down his battered, bloodied face. He babbles some more, something about knowing only John, Ahmed, and the men who were killed during their capture yesterday. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ahmed glaring at him, no doubt wishing that his cousin would keep his mouth shut, but John doesn’t seem alarmed by Abdul’s verbal diarrhea. John’s lack of concern only confirms what my instincts are telling me: that Abdul is telling the truth about not knowing anything else.
As though reading my mind, Peter steps next to me. “Do you want to do the honors, or should I?” His tone is casual, like he’s offering me a cup of coffee.
“I’ll do it,” I reply in the same manner. There is no room for softness in my business, no place for sentimentality. Abdul’s guilt or i
nnocence doesn’t matter; he allied himself with my enemies and, by doing so, signed his own death warrant. The only mercy I will grant him is that of a swift end to the misery of his existence.
Ignoring the man’s terrified pleas, I slice my blade across Abdul’s throat, then step back, watching as he bleeds out. When it’s over, I wipe the knife on the dead man’s shirt and turn to the two remaining prisoners.
“All right,” I say, giving them a placid smile. “Who’s next?”
* * *
To my annoyance, it takes most of the morning to break Ahmed. For a new recruit, he’s surprisingly resilient. He ultimately gives in, of course—they all do—and I learn the name of the man who acts as an intermediary between their cell and another one that’s run by a more senior leader. I also learn of a plan to blow up a tour bus in Tel-Aviv—information that my contacts in the Israeli government will find quite useful.
I let John watch the whole process, up until the moment Ahmed takes his last breath. Even though John may be trained to withstand torture, I doubt he’s psychologically prepared to see his colleague taken apart piece by piece, all the while knowing that he, John, will be next. Few people are capable of maintaining their cool in a situation like that—and I know that John is not one of them when I catch his gaze dropping to the floor during a particularly gruesome moment. Still, I know it will take us at least a few hours to extract anything from him, and I can’t neglect my business for the rest of the day. John will have to wait until this afternoon, after I’ve had lunch and caught up on some work.
