Isabella comes into the cabin a few minutes later, her bombshell body squeezed into a tight red dress. She’s holding a tray with coffee and a platter of pastries. Goldberg appears to have fallen asleep, so she heads toward us, her lips curved in a seductive smile.

The first time I saw her, when Julian came back for me in December, I was insanely jealous. Since then I’ve learned that Isabella has never had a relationship with Julian and is actually married to one of the guards at the estate—two facts that have gone a long way toward soothing the green-eyed monster within me. I’ve only seen the woman once or twice in the past couple of months; unlike most of Julian’s employees, she spends the majority of her time outside the compound, working as his eyes and ears at several high-end private jet companies.

“You’d be surprised how loose-lipped people get after a couple of drinks at thirty thousand feet,” Julian explained once. “Executives, politicians, cartel bosses . . . They all like having Isabella around, and they don’t always watch what they say in her presence. Thanks to her, I’ve gotten everything from insider trading tips to intel about drug deals in the area.”

So yeah, I’m no longer quite as jealous of Isabella, but I still can’t help feeling that her manner with Julian is a little too flirtatious for a married woman. Then again, I’m probably not the best judge of appropriate married-woman behavior. If I were to stare at any man longer than a second, I would be signing his death warrant.

Julian takes possessiveness to a whole new level.

“Would you like some coffee?” Isabella asks, stopping next to his seat. She’s more circumspect in her staring today, but I still feel the urge to slap her pretty face for the come-hither smile she gives my husband.

Okay, so Julian is not the only one with possessiveness issues. As messed up as it is, I feel proprietary about the man who abducted me. It makes no sense, but I gave up trying to make sense of my crazy relationship with Julian a long time ago.

It’s easier to just accept it.

At Isabella’s question, Julian looks up from his laptop. “Sure,” he says before glancing in my direction. “Nora?”

“Yes, please,” I say politely. “And a couple of those croissants.”

Isabella pours us each a cup, sets the pastry platter on my table, and sashays back to the front of the plane, her lushly curved hips swaying from side to side. I experience a moment of envy before reminding myself that Julian wants me.

He wants me too much, in fact, but that’s a whole other issue.

For the next half hour, I read quietly as I eat my croissants and sip my coffee. Julian appears to be concentrating on his drone design email, so I don’t bother him; instead, I do my best to focus on my book, a sci-fi thriller I bought at the clinic. My attention, however, keeps wandering, my thoughts straying every couple of pages.

It feels odd to be sitting here reading. Surreal, in a way. It’s as if nothing had happened. As if we hadn’t just survived terror and torture.

As if I hadn’t blown a man’s brains out in cold blood.

As if I hadn’t almost lost Julian again.

My heart starts beating faster, the images from this morning’s nightmare invading my mind with startling clarity. Blood . . . Julian’s body cut and mangled . . . His beautiful face with vacant eye sockets . . . The book slips out of my shaking hands, falling to the floor as I attempt to suck in air through a suddenly constricted throat.

“Nora?” Strong, warm fingers close around my wrist, and through the panicked haze veiling my vision, I see Julian’s bandaged face in front of me. He’s gripping me tightly, his laptop forgotten on the table next to him. “Nora, can you hear me?”

I manage to nod, my tongue coming out to wet my lips. My mouth is dry with fear, and my blouse is sticking to my back from perspiration. My hands are clutching the edge of the seat, my nails digging into the soft leather. A part of me knows that my mind is playing tricks on me—that this extreme anxiety is unfounded—but my body is reacting as if the threat is real.

As if we’re back at that construction site in Tajikistan, at the mercy of Majid and the other terrorists.

“Breathe, baby.” Julian’s voice is soothing as his hand comes up to gently cradle my jaw. “Breathe slowly, deeply . . . There’s a good girl . . .”

I do as he says, keeping my eyes on his face as I take deep breaths to manage my panic. After a minute, my heartbeat slows, and my hands uncurl from the edge of my seat. I’m still shaking, but the suffocating fear is gone.

Feeling embarrassed, I wrap my fingers around Julian’s palm and pull his hand away from my face. “I’m okay,” I manage to say in a relatively steady voice. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

He stares at me, his eye glittering, and I see a mixture of rage and frustration in his gaze. His fingers are still gripping mine, as if reluctant to let go. “You’re not okay, Nora,” he says harshly. “You’re anything but okay.”

He’s right. I don’t want to admit it, but he’s right. I haven’t been okay since Julian left the estate to hunt down the terrorists. I’ve been a mess since his departure—and I seem to be even more of a mess now that he’s back.

“I’m fine,” I say, not wanting him to think me weak. Julian was tortured, and he seems to be handling it, whereas I’m falling apart for no good reason.

“Fine?” His eyebrows snap together. “In the past twenty-four hours, you’ve had two panic attacks and a nightmare. That’s not fine, Nora.”