“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.”