by Anna Zaires
The nausea comes and goes. I’ve found that eating small, frequent meals helps, as does sticking to plainer foods. Under Ana’s and Julian’s watchful eyes, I dutifully take prenatal vitamins and avoid the foods on Dr. Goldberg’s list, but I try not to dwell on those things. Until the baby bump shows up, I intend to act as if everything’s normal.
Thankfully, my body is cooperating for now. My breasts have gotten a little bigger, and they’re more sensitive, but that’s the only change I’ve detected. My stomach is still flat, and I haven’t gained any weight. If anything, because of my unsettled tummy, I lost a couple of pounds—a fact that worries Julian, who’s doing his best to coddle me into madness.
“I don’t need to rest,” I protest in exasperation as he once again tries to make me nap in the middle of the day. “Really, I’m fine. I slept ten hours last night. How much sleep does a person need?”
And it’s true. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been sleeping much better. As strange as it is, knowing that my anxiety has a hormonal cause has alleviated it to a large extent, significantly reducing my nightmares and panic attacks.
My shrink tells me it’s because I’m less worried about my head being messed up from everything that’s happened. Apparently, stressing about being overly stressed is particularly bad for the psyche, whereas less convoluted stress factors—like having a child with a sadistic arms dealer—are less anxiety-provoking.
“The human brain is highly unpredictable,” Dr. Wessex says, looking at me through her trendy Prada glasses. “What you think scares you might not be what weighs on your subconscious at all. You may worry about this baby, but it doesn’t frighten you as much as the thought that you might never get a grip on your anxiety. If your panic attacks stem from pregnancy, then you know it’s a temporary issue—and that helps you feel less anxious about it.”
I nod and smile, as if that makes perfect sense. I do that a lot when I talk to her. If Julian didn’t insist that I continue my twice-weekly therapy sessions, I would’ve already stopped them. It’s not that I dislike Dr. Wessex—a tall, stylish woman in her mid-forties, she’s quite competent and seemingly nonjudgmental—but I find that talking to her just highlights the insanity that is my relationship with Julian.
Why, yes, Doctor, my husband—you know, the man who hired you and insisted you come out to the middle of nowhere—kept me captive on his island for fifteen months, and now I’m so brainwashed I can’t live without him and crave abusive sex. Oh, and we’re having a baby. Nothing fucked up about that, of course. Just your regular, run-of-the-mill crime family.
Yeah, sure.
In any case, trying to get me to take naps is the least egregious example of Julian’s excessive coddling. He also monitors my diet, makes sure that the exercise routine I resumed is fully doctor-approved, and worst of all, treats me with kid gloves in bed. No matter how much I try to provoke him, he won’t do more than hold me down in bed. It’s as if he’s afraid to unleash the brutality within himself, to lose control again.
“I told you, the obstetrician said rougher sex is okay as long as there’s no spotting or leaking of amniotic fluid,” I tell Julian after he takes me gently yet again. “I’m healthy, everything’s normal, so there’s really no harm.”
“I’m not taking any chances,” he replies, kissing the outer rim of my ear, and I know he has no intention of listening to me on the topic.
A part of me still can’t believe that I want this from him, that I miss the dark edge to our lovemaking. It’s not that I’m ever left unsatisfied—Julian makes sure I have at least a couple of orgasms every night—but something within me craves the intoxicating blend of pleasure-pain, the endorphin rush I get from truly intense sex. Even the fear he makes me feel is addictive in some way, whether I want to admit it or not.
It’s sick, but the night we learned about my pregnancy—the night he forced me—has featured in my fantasies more than once in recent days.
What Dr. Wessex would say about that I don’t know, and I don’t care to find out. It’s enough that the memory of that trauma, just like the recollections of my time on the island, have somehow taken on an erotic overtone in my mind.
It’s enough to know that I’m completely twisted.
Of course, Julian’s uncharacteristic gentleness in bed is not the only issue. Another casualty of his smothering concern for me is my self-defense training. It’s particularly frustrating because for the first time in weeks, I have energy. Sleeping well has reduced my fatigue, and schoolwork no longer tires me as much. I’ve even been able to resume running—after first pre-clearing the activity with the doctor, of course—but Julian refuses to let me do anything that could possibly result in bruises. Shooting is also out of the question; apparently, firing a gun releases lead particles that could, in some unknown quantity, harm the unborn baby.
There are so many restrictions it makes me want to scream.
“You know this is only temporary, Nora,” Ana says when I make the mistake of expressing my frustration to her at breakfast. “Just a few more months, and you’ll have a baby in your arms—and then it will all be worth it.”
I nod and paste a smile on my face, but the housekeeper’s words don’t cheer me up.
They fill me with dread.
In a little over seven months, I will be responsible for a child—and the idea terrifies me more than ever.
* * *
“You still haven’t told your parents about the baby?” Rosa gives me an astonished look as we leave the house to go for our morning walk.
“No,” I say, sipping a fruit smoothie with powdered vitamins. “I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“But I thought you talk to them every day.”
“I do, but the subject hasn’t come up.” I probably sound defensive, but I can’t help it. In terms of things I dread, telling my parents about my pregnancy is right up there with childbirth.
“Nora . . .” Rosa stops under a thick, vine-draped tree. “Are you worried they won’t be happy for you?”
I picture my dad’s probable reaction to learning that his not-quite-twenty-year-old daughter is pregnant with her kidnapper’s child. “You could say that.”
“But why wouldn’t they be happy?” My friend looks genuinely confused. “You’re married to a wealthy man who loves you and who’ll take good care of you and the child. What more could they want?”
“Well, for one thing, for me not to be married to said man at all,” I say drily. “Rosa, I told you our story. My parents aren’t exactly Julian’s biggest fans.”
Rosa waves a dismissive hand. “All that is—how do you say it?—water under the bridge. Who cares how it all began? What matters is the present, not the past.”
“Oh, sure. Seize the day and all that.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” Rosa says as we resume our walk. “You should talk to your parents, Nora. It’s their grandchild. They deserve to know.”
“Yeah, I’ll probably tell them soon.” I take another sip of my smoothie. “I’ll have no choice.”
We walk in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Rosa asks quietly, “You really don’t want this child, do you, Nora?”
I stop and look at her. “Rosa . . .” How do I explain my concerns to a girl who grew up on the estate and who thinks that this kind of life is normal? That my relationship with Julian is romantic? “It’s not that I don’t want a baby. It’s just that Julian’s world—our world—is too fucked up to bring a child into it. How could somebody like Julian make a good father? How could I make a good mother?”
“What do you mean?” Rosa frowns at me. “Why wouldn’t you make a good mother?”
“I’m in love with a crime lord who abducted me, and who kills and tortures people as part of his business,” I say gently. “That hardly qualifies me to be a good parent. A case study for one of Dr. Wessex’s papers, maybe, but not a good parent.”
“Oh, please.” Rosa rolls her eyes. “A lot of men do bad things.
You Americans are so sensitive. Señor Esguerra is far from the worst there is, and you shouldn’t blame yourself for caring about him. That doesn’t make you bad in any way.”
“Rosa, it’s not just that.” I hesitate, but then decide to just say it. “When we were in Tajikistan, I killed a man.” I exhale slowly, reliving the dark thrill of pulling the trigger and watching Majid’s brains splatter all over the wall. “I shot him in cold blood.”
“So what?” She hardly blinks. “I’ve killed too.”
I gape at her, stunned into silence, and she explains, “It was when the estate was attacked. I found a gun, hid in the bushes, and shot at the men attacking us. I wounded one and killed another. I later learned that the wounded one died too.”
“But you were only a child.” I can’t get over my shock. “You’re telling me you killed two people when you were what—ten, eleven?”
“Almost eleven,” she says, shrugging. “And yes, I did.”
“But . . . but you seem so—”
“Normal?” she supplies, looking at me with a strange smile. “Nice? Of course, why wouldn’t I be? I killed to protect those I care about. I killed men who came here to bring us death and destruction. It’s no different from cutting off the head of the snake that wants to bite you. If I hadn’t killed them, more of our people would’ve died. Maybe they would’ve killed my mother, as well as my father and brother.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I could never have imagined that Rosa—cheerful, round-cheeked Rosa—was capable of something like that. I’ve always thought that evil leaves a trace. I see it in Julian, etched so deeply into his soul that it’s a part of him. I see it in myself now, too. But I don’t see it in Rosa. Not at all.
“How do you not let it affect you?” I ask. How do you retain your innocence?
She looks at me, and for the first time, she appears older than her twenty-one years. “You can choose to let the black stuff tarnish you, Nora, or you can brush it off,” she says quietly. “I chose the latter. I killed, but that’s not who I am. I don’t let that act define me. It happened, and it’s done. It’s in the past. I can’t change the past, so I’m not going to dwell on it. And neither should you. Your present, your future—that’s what matters.”
I bite my lip, my eyes beginning to burn with incipient tears. “But what kind of future can this child have with parents like us, Rosa? Look at what’s happened to me and Julian over the past two years. How can I be sure my baby won’t be kidnapped or tortured by Julian’s enemies?”
“You can’t be sure.” Rosa’s gaze is unflinching. “Nobody can be sure of anything. Bad things can happen to anyone, anywhere. There are soldiers who live to a ripe old age, and office workers who die young. There’s no rhyme or reason to life, Nora. You can choose to live every moment in fear, or you can enjoy life. Enjoy what you have with Julian. Enjoy this baby you have growing inside you. It’s a gift, not a curse, to bring forth life. You might not have chosen to bring a child into this world, but it’s here now, and all you can do is love it. Treasure it. Don’t let your fears spoil it for you.” She pauses, and then adds softly, “Don’t let your soul get tarnished by what you can’t change.”
Chapter 11
Julian
“So what’s the damage?” I ask Lucas as we leave the training area. I’m breathing hard, my muscles are sore, and my left shoulder is aching, but I feel satisfied.
I’m nearly back to my former fighting shape—as the three guards limping away can testify.
“There was another hit in France, and two more in Germany.” Lucas wipes the sweat off his face with a balled-up towel. “He’s not wasting any time.”
“I didn’t think he would.” Given Peter Sokolov’s singular focus on revenge, I know it’s only a matter of time before he eliminates the rest of the men on that list. “How did he do it this time?”
“The French guy was found floating in a river, with marks of torture and strangulation, so I’m guessing Sokolov must’ve kidnapped him first. For the Germans, one hit was a car bomb, and the other one a sniper rifle.” Lucas grins darkly. “They must not have pissed him off as much.”
“Or he went for expediency.”
“Or that,” Lucas agrees. “He probably knows Interpol is on his tail.”
“I’m sure he does.” I try to imagine what I would do if someone hurt my family, and a shudder of fury ripples through me. I can’t even imagine what Peter must be feeling—not that it excuses his endangering Nora to get this fucking list.
I still want to kill him for that.
“By the way,” Lucas says casually, “I’m having Yulia Tzakova brought here from Moscow.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “The interpreter who betrayed us to the Ukrainians? Why?”
“I want to personally interrogate her,” Lucas says, draping the towel around his neck. “I don’t trust the Russians to do a thorough job.” His expression is as impassive as ever, but I see a hint of excitement in his pale gaze.
He’s looking forward to this.
I narrow my eyes, studying him. “Is it because you fucked her that night in Moscow?” The Russian girl came on to me first, but I passed on her invitation—and then Lucas expressed an interest in her. “Is that what this is about?”
His mouth hardens. “She fucked me over. Literally. So yeah, I want to get my hands on the little bitch. But I also think she might have some useful info for us.”
I consider that for a moment, then nod. “In that case, go for it.” It would be hypocritical of me to deny Lucas some fun with the pretty blonde. If he wants to personally make her pay for the plane crash, I see no harm in that.
She would’ve been dead before long in Moscow anyway.
“Did you already negotiate this with the Russians?” I ask as we resume walking.
Lucas nods. “Initially, they tried to say they’d only deal with Sokolov, but I convinced them it wouldn’t be wise to get on your bad side. Buschekov saw the light when I reminded him of the recent troubles at Al-Quadar.”
“Good.” If even the Russians are inclined to accommodate me, then my vendetta against the terrorist organization achieved its intended effect. Not only is Al-Quadar utterly decimated, but my reputation is substantially enhanced. Few of my clients are likely to double-cross me now—a development that promises to be good for business.
“Yes, it’s helpful,” Lucas echoes my thoughts. “She’ll be arriving here tomorrow.”
I raise my eyebrows, but decide against commenting on the speed of this development. If he wants to play with the Russian girl this badly, it’s his business. “Where are you going to keep her?” I ask instead.
“In my quarters. I’ll be interrogating her there.”
I grin, picturing the interrogation in question. “All right. Enjoy.”
“Oh, I will,” he says grimly. “You can bet on it.”
* * *
After I take a shower, I go looking for Nora. Or, rather, I check my computer for the location of her embedded trackers and go directly to the library, where she must be studying for her finals.
I find her sitting at a desk facing away from me, typing furiously on her laptop. Her hair is tied up in a loose ponytail, and she’s wearing a huge T-shirt that falls down to her knees.
My T-shirt, from the looks of it.
She’s started doing that lately when she has to study. Claims my T-shirts are more comfortable than her dresses. I don’t mind in the least. Seeing her dressed in my clothes only emphasizes the fact that she’s mine.
Both she and the baby she’s carrying.
She doesn’t react as I step into the room and walk up to her. When I reach her, I see why.
She’s wearing headphones, her smooth forehead wrinkled in concentration as she pounds at the keyboard, her fingers flying over the keys with startling speed. For a second, I consider leaving her to it, but it’s too late. Nora must’ve seen me out of the corner of her eye, because she looks up and gives me a dazzling smile, removin
g her headphones.
“Hi.” Her voice is soft and a little husky. “Is it dinnertime already?”
“Not quite.” I smile back and place my hands on the nape of her neck. Her muscles feel tight, so I begin kneading them with my thumbs. “I just did a few rounds with my men and came here to take a shower before I go back to my office. Figured I’d check on you on the way.”
“Oh.” She arches into my touch, closing her eyes. “Oh, yeah, right there . . . Oh, that’s so good . . .”
She sounds like I’m fucking her, and my response is instantaneous.
I get hard. Very hard.
Fuck.
Drawing in a breath, I rein in my lust, like I’ve been doing for the past two weeks. When I take her tonight, it will again be in a careful and controlled manner. Regardless of the provocation, I will not risk damaging the baby.
“Is that your Psychology paper?” I keep my tone even as I continue to massage her neck. “You seem to be really into it.”
“Oh, yeah.” She opens her eyes and tilts her head to look at me. “It’s on Stockholm Syndrome.”
My hands still. “Is that right?”
She nods, a dark little smile curving her lips. “Yes. Interesting subject, don’t you think?”
“Yes, fascinating,” I say drily. My pet is definitely getting bolder. Taunting me—likely in the hopes that I’ll punish her.
And I want to. My hands itch to bend her over my knee, hike up that giant T-shirt, and spank her perfectly shaped ass until it’s pink and red. My cock throbs at the image, especially when I imagine spreading open her cheeks afterwards and penetrating her tight little asshole—
Fucking stop thinking about it. I see Nora’s smile deepen as her eyes flick down to the bulge in my jeans. The little witch knows exactly what she’s doing to me, what kind of effect she’s having on my body.
