Then I pull out, kneel on the ground next to her, and make her lie down on the grass. “Spread open your legs,” I order, tugging her dress up to expose her lower body.

She does as I instruct, her gaze filled with anticipation and a hint of wariness. I place my hands on her sleek, tan thighs and stroke them, enjoying the delicate texture of her skin. Then I bend down, hook my fingers into her pink thong, and pull it aside, exposing her glistening pussy lips.

“You have such a sexy pussy, baby.” The words come out low and raspy as my hunger, just barely quelled, returns with a vengeance. Bending lower, I inhale her sweet, musky scent. “Such a beautiful, wet little pussy.”

Her breathing hitches, a moan vibrating in her throat as I press my lips to her folds, kissing them lightly. “Julian, please.” She sounds tortured. “Please, I—I need you.”

“Yes.” I let my breath wash over her sensitive flesh. “I know you do.” I give her slit a long, slow lick. “You’ll always need me, won’t you?”

“Yes.” She pushes her hips up, begging. “Always.”

“Then, my pet, here’s your reward.”

Pressing my tongue to her clit, I begin pleasuring her in earnest, drinking in her pleas and moans. When she finally shudders and cries out in release, I lap at her a few more times, drawing out her orgasm, and then I move up to lie beside her on the grass, folding my left arm under my head as a pillow and arranging her head on my right shoulder.

We lie like that for a while, gazing out at the shimmering water of the lake and listening to the quiet chirping of insects. I still want her, but the desire is more mellow now. More controlled. I didn’t hurt her this time, but the heaviness in my chest is still there, still weighing on me.

Finally, I can no longer remain silent.

“Nora, last night . . . it wasn’t because of Peter’s list.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell her this, but I do. I want her to understand that I didn’t intend to punish her at that moment, that the pain I inflicted was not part of some cruel design. I don’t know why that would matter to her, coming from her kidnapper, or what the distinction really is, but I need her to know this. “It was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened.”

She doesn’t respond, doesn’t acknowledge my words in any way, but after a few moments, she turns in my arms and rests her right hand on my chest, directly over my heart.

Chapter 10

Nora

Over the next two weeks, I do my best to manage the new reality of my situation. Or, more precisely, to go about my life and pretend that nothing’s happening.

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.