by Anna Zaires
I thank him for the compliment, but inwardly I wonder if it’s necessarily a good thing, seeing beneath the surface like that. If I could pretend to myself that at the core, Julian is a good man—that he is simply misunderstood and can ultimately be reformed—it would be so much easier for me. If I were blind to my husband’s nature, I wouldn’t feel so conflicted about my feelings for him.
I wouldn’t worry that I’m in love with the devil.
But I do see him for what he is—a demon in a handsome man’s disguise, a monster wearing a beautiful mask. And I wonder if that means that I’m a monster too . . . that I’m evil for loving him.
I wish I had Beth to talk to about this. I know she wasn’t exactly an expert on normal, but I still miss her unorthodox views on things, the way she could turn everything on its head and have it make some kind of twisted sense. I’m pretty sure I know what she would say in regard to my situation. She would tell me I’m lucky to have someone like Julian—that we are meant to be together and everything else is bullshit.
And she would probably be right. When I think back to those lonely, empty months before Julian’s return—when I had my freedom and normal life, but didn’t have him—all my doubts fade away. No matter what he is or what he does, I would sooner die than go through that soul-crushing misery again.
For better or worse, I’m no longer complete without Julian, and no amount of self-flagellation can alter that fact.
* * *
A week after Julian’s conversation with Frank, I knock on the heavy metal door and wait for him to let me in. I had spent the morning walking with Rosa and preparing for my upcoming classes, while Julian went in without me to do some paperwork for his offshore accounts. Apparently, even crime lords have to deal with taxes and legal matters; it appears to be a universal evil that no one can avoid.
When the door swings open, I’m surprised to see a tall, dark-haired man sitting across the large oval table from Julian. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, just a few years older than my husband. I have seen him walking around the estate before, but I’ve never had an occasion to interact with him in person. From a distance, he’d reminded me of a sleek, dark predator—an impression that’s only strengthened by the way he’s looking at me now, his gray eyes tracking my every move with a peculiar mix of watchfulness and indifference.
“Come in, Nora,” Julian says, gesturing for me to join them. “This is Peter Sokolov, our security consultant.”
“Oh, hi. It’s very nice to meet you.” Walking over to the table, I give Peter a cautious smile as I sit down next to Julian. Peter is a good-looking man, with a strong jaw and high, exotically slanted cheekbones, but for some reason, he makes the fine hair at the back of my neck stand up. It’s not what he says or does—he nods at me politely while sitting there, his pose deceptively calm and relaxed—it’s what I see in his steel-colored eyes.
Rage. Pure, undiluted rage. I sense it within Peter, feel it emanating from his pores. It’s not anger or a momentary flare-up of temper. No, this emotion goes deeper than that. It’s a part of him, like his hard-muscled body or the white scar that bisects his left eyebrow.
For all his cold, carefully controlled demeanor, the man is a deadly volcano waiting to explode.
“We were just finishing up,” Julian says, and I catch a note of displeasure in his voice. Tearing my eyes away from Peter, I see a tiny muscle flexing in Julian’s jaw. I must’ve stared at Peter for too long without realizing it, and my husband misinterpreted my involuntary fascination as interest.
Shit. A jealous Julian is never a good thing. In fact, it’s a very, very bad thing.
As I rack my brain trying to figure out how to diffuse the situation, Peter rises to his feet. “We can resume this tomorrow if you’d like,” he says calmly, addressing Julian. I can’t help noticing that unlike most on the estate, Peter doesn’t defer to my husband. Instead he speaks to Julian as an equal, his demeanor respectful, yet utterly self-assured. I catch a faint Eastern European accent in his speech, and I wonder where he’s from. Poland? Russia? Ukraine?
“Yes,” Julian says, getting up as well. His expression is still dark, but his voice is now smooth and even. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Peter disappears, leaving us alone, and I slowly rise to my feet, my palms beginning to sweat. I didn’t do anything wrong, but convincing Julian of that won’t be easy. His possessiveness borders on the obsessive; sometimes I’m surprised he doesn’t keep me locked away in his bedroom, so that other men will never see me.
Sure enough, as soon as the door closes behind Peter, Julian steps toward me. “Did you like Peter, my pet?” he says softly, crowding me with his powerful body until I’m forced to back up against the table. “Do you have a thing for Russian men?”
“No.” I shake my head, holding Julian’s gaze. I’m hoping he can see the truth on my face. Peter might be handsome, but he’s also scary—and the only scary man I want is the one glaring at me right now. “Not even a little bit. That’s not why I was looking at him.”
“No?” Julian’s eyes narrow as he grasps my chin. “Why then?”
“He frightened me,” I admit, figuring that honesty is the best policy here. “There’s something about him that I found disturbing.”
Julian studies me intently for a second, then releases my chin and steps back, causing me to let out a relieved breath. Storm averted.
“As insightful as always,” he murmurs, his voice holding a note of rueful amusement. “Yes, you’re right, Nora. There is indeed something disturbing about Peter.”
“What is his deal?” I ask, my curiosity reawakening now that Julian is no longer angry with me. I know Julian doesn’t employ choirboys, but what I sensed in Peter is different, more volatile. “Who is he?”
Julian gives me a small, grim smile and walks over to sit down behind his desk. “He’s former Spetsnaz—Russian Special Forces. He was one of the best until his wife and son were killed. Now he wants revenge, and he came to me hoping that I can help him.”
I feel a flicker of pity. It’s not only rage then; Peter is also filled with grief and pain.
“Help him how?” I ask, leaning back against the table. Julian’s security consultant didn’t strike me as someone who’d need help with many things.
“By using my connections to get him a list of names. Apparently, there were some NATO soldiers involved, and the cover-up is a mile deep.”
“Oh.” I stare at Julian, feeling uneasy. I can only imagine what Peter intends to do with those soldiers. “So did you give him this list?”
“Not yet. I’m working on it. A lot of this information seems to be classified, so it’s not easy.”
“Can’t you ask your contact at the CIA to help you?”
“I did ask him. Frank is dragging his feet because there are some Americans on that list.” Julian looks annoyed for a brief second. “He’ll come through eventually, though. He always does. I just need to have something the CIA wants badly enough.”
“Right, of course,” I murmur. “A favor for a favor . . . Is that why Peter is working for you? Because you promised him this list?”
“Yes, that’s our deal.” Julian smiles sharply. “Three years of loyal service in exchange for getting him those names at the end. I also pay him, of course—but Peter doesn’t care about money.”
“What about Lucas?” I ask, my thoughts turning to Julian’s right-hand man. “Does he also have a story?”
“Everybody has a story,” Julian says, but he sounds distracted now, his attention straying to the computer screen. “Even you, my pet.”
And before I can pry further, he busies himself with emails, putting an end to our discussion for the day.
Chapter 14
Julian
The next few weeks come as close to domestic bliss as I have ever experienced. Other than one day trip to Mexico for a negotiation with the Juarez cartel, I spend all my time on the estate with Nora.
With her classes having star
ted, Nora’s days are filled with textbooks, papers, and tests. She’s so busy that she often studies late into the evening—a practice that I dislike, but don’t put a stop to. She seems determined to prove that she can hold her own with the students who got into the Stanford program on their own merit, and I don’t want to discourage her. I know she’s doing this partly for her parents—who continue to worry about her future with me—and partly because she’s enjoying the challenge. Despite the added stress, my pet seems to be thriving these days, her eyes bright with excitement and her movements filled with purposeful energy.
I like that development. I like seeing her happy and confident, content with her life with me. Though the monster inside me still gets off on her pain and fear, her growing strength and resilience appeal to me. I never wanted to break her, only to make her mine—and it pleases me to see her becoming my match in more ways than one.
Although schoolwork consumes much of her time, Nora continues her tutelage with Monsieur Bernard, saying that she finds it relaxing to draw and paint. She also insists that I continue giving her self-defense and shooting lessons twice a week—a request that I’m more than happy to fulfill, as it gives us more time together. As the training progresses, I see that she’s better with guns than with knives, though she’s surprisingly decent with both. She’s also becoming quite good at certain fighting moves, her small body slowly but surely turning into a lethal weapon. She even manages to bloody my nose one time, her sharp elbow connecting with my face before I have a chance to block her lightning-fast strike.
It’s an achievement she should be proud of, but, of course, being the good girl that she is, Nora is immediately horrified and remorseful.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” She rushes to me, grabbing a towel to stop the bleeding. She appears so distraught that I burst out laughing, though my nose throbs like a son of a bitch. This is what I get for being distracted during training. She’d managed to catch me off-guard at a moment when I was looking at her breasts and fantasizing about pulling up her sports bra.
“Julian! Why are you laughing?” Nora’s voice rises in pitch as she presses the towel to my face. “You should see a doctor! It could be broken—”
“It’s fine, baby,” I reassure her between bouts of laughter, taking the towel from her shaking hands. “I can promise you I’ve had worse. If it were broken, I’d know it.” My voice sounds nasal due to the towel pressed against my nose, but I can feel the cartilage with my fingers, and it’s straight, undamaged. I’ll have a black eye, but that’s about it. If I hadn’t deflected to the right at the last second, though, her move could’ve crushed my nose completely, forcing fragments of bone into my brain and killing me on the spot.
“It’s not fine!” Nora steps away, still looking extremely upset. “I could’ve seriously hurt you!”
“Wouldn’t I have deserved it?” I say, only half-teasing. I know there is a part of her that still resents me for the way I took her—that will always resent me for that. If I were her, I wouldn’t apologize for causing me pain. I’d look for opportunities to kick my ass any chance I got.
She glares at me, but I see that she’s beginning to calm down now that the immediate shock is over. “Probably,” she says in a more level tone of voice. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to suffer. I’m stupid and irrational like that, you see.”
I grin at her, lowering the towel. The bleeding is almost over; as I had suspected, it was only a mild hit. “You’re not stupid,” I say softly, stepping closer to her. Though my nose still hurts, there is a new, growing ache in a much lower region of my body. “You’re exactly as I want you to be.”
“Brainwashed and in love with my kidnapper?” she asks drily as I reach for her, dropping the bloodied towel on the floor.
“Yes, exactly,” I murmur, pulling off her sports bra to bare her small, perfectly shaped breasts. “And very, very fuckable . . .”
And as I tug her down to the mat, my injury is the last thing on my mind.
* * *
As Nora’s semester progresses, we develop a routine. I usually wake up before her and go for a training session with my men. When I return, she’s awake, so we eat breakfast, and then I head into the office while Nora goes for a walk with Rosa and listens to the online lectures. After a few hours, I come back to the house, and we have lunch together. Then I go back to my office, and Nora either meets Monsieur Bernard for her art lesson or joins me in the office, where she studies quietly while I work or conduct meetings. Even though she appears not to be paying attention at those times, I know that she does—because she often asks me follow-up questions about the business at dinner.
I don’t mind her curiosity, even though I know she silently condemns what I do. The idea that I supply weapons to criminals and the often-brutal methods I use to maintain control over the business are anathema to Nora. She doesn’t understand that if I didn’t do this, someone else would, and the world would not necessarily be safer or better. Drug lords and dictators would get their weapons one way or another. The only question is who would profit from it—and I would prefer that person to be me.
I know Nora doesn’t agree with that reasoning, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need her approval—all I need is her.
And I have her. She’s with me so much that I’m beginning to forget what it feels like not to have her by my side. We’re rarely apart for more than a few hours at a time, and when we are, I miss her so intensely, it’s like a physical ache in my chest. I have no idea how I had been able to leave her alone on the island for days or even weeks at a time. Now I don’t even like to see Nora go for a run without me, so I do my best to accompany her when she sprints around the estate in late afternoon.
I do that because I want my wife’s company, but also to make sure that she’s safe. Though my enemies can’t steal her here, there are snakes, spiders, and poisonous frogs in the area. And in the nearby rainforest, there are jaguars and other jungle predators. The chances of her getting stung or seriously hurt by a wild animal are small, but I’m not willing to risk it. I can’t bear the thought of any harm coming to her. When Nora had her appendicitis attack, I’d nearly gone out of my mind with panic—and that was before my addiction to her reached this new, utterly insane level.
My fear of losing her is starting to border on the pathological. I recognize that, but I don’t know how to control it. It’s a sickness that seems to have no cure. I worry about Nora constantly, obsessively. I want to know where she is at every moment of every day. She’s rarely out of my sight, but when she is, I can’t concentrate, my mind conjuring up deadly accidents that could befall her and other frightening scenarios.
“I want you to put two guards on Nora,” I tell Lucas one morning. “I want them to tail her whenever she walks around the estate, so they can make sure nothing happens to her.”
“All right.” Lucas doesn’t blink at my unusual request. “I’ll work with Peter to free up two of our best men.”
“Good. And I want them to text me a report on her every hour on the dot.”
“Consider it done.”
The guards’ hourly reports keep my fears at bay for a couple of weeks—until I get an email that turns my world upside down.
* * *
“Majid is alive,” I tell Nora at dinner, carefully watching her reaction. “I just heard from one of Peter’s contacts in Moscow. He’s been spotted in Tajikistan.”
Her eyes widen in shock and dismay. “What? But he died in the explosion!”
“No, unfortunately he didn’t.” I do my best to keep my rage under control. The fact that Beth’s murderer is alive makes my blood boil with pure acid. “It turns out he and four others left the warehouse two hours before I got there. You didn’t see him there when I came for you, right?”
“No, I didn’t.” Nora frowns. “I assumed he was outside, guarding the building or something . . .”
“That’s what I thought, too. But he wasn’t. He was nowhere near the warehouse when
the explosion occurred.”
“How do you know this?”
“The Russians captured one of the four men who left with Majid that night. They caught him in Moscow, plotting to blow up the subway.” Despite my best efforts, fury seeps into my voice, and I can see the corresponding tension in Nora. If there’s any topic that can move my pet to anger, it’s that of Beth’s murderers. “They interrogated him and learned that he’s been in hiding in Eastern Europe and Central Asia for the past few months, along with Majid and the two others.”
Before Nora can respond, Ana walks into the dining room.
“Would you like some dessert?” the housekeeper asks us, and Nora shakes her head, her soft mouth drawn in a tight line.
“None for me, thanks,” I say curtly, and Ana disappears, leaving us alone once again.
“So what now?” Nora asks. “Are you going to track him down?”
“Yes.” And when I do, I’m going to take him apart, one piece of flesh and bone at a time—but I don’t tell Nora that. Instead I explain, “His cohort admitted to last seeing Majid in Tajikistan, so that’s where we’ll start our search. Apparently, he’s managed to gather a sizable group of new followers in the last few months, injecting fresh blood into Al-Quadar.”
That last tidbit worries me quite a bit. Though we’ve done serious damage to the terrorist group over the past couple of months, the Al-Quadar organization is so spread out that there could still be a dozen functional cells throughout the world. Combined with the new recruits, these cells could be just powerful enough to be dangerous—and, according to the intelligence Peter got from his contacts, Majid is getting ready for something big . . . something in Latin America.
He’s preparing to strike back at me.
He won’t penetrate the security of the estate, of course, but just the possibility of these motherfuckers coming within a hundred miles of Nora makes me livid with rage and awakens the fear that I can’t quite shake.