Except it’s not Julian who’s the killer this time.

It’s me.

My hands are steady as I lower the weapon again, watching the blood trickle down the wall behind Majid. Then I walk toward Julian, kneel down beside him, and carefully place the gun on the floor as I begin to work on untying his ropes.

Julian is silent as I free him from his bonds, and so am I. The sounds of gunfire outside are beginning to die down, and I’m hoping that means Peter’s forces are winning. Either way, though, I’m ready for whatever may come, a strange calm engulfing me despite our still-precarious situation.

When Julian’s arms and legs are free, he kicks the chair away and rolls onto his back, his right hand closing around my wrist. His left arm, still partially in a cast, is immobile at his side, and there’s more blood on his face and body from the beating he just received. His grip on my wrist, however, is surprisingly strong as he pulls me closer, forcing me down on the floor next to him.

“Stay down, baby,” he whispers through swollen lips. “It’s almost over . . . Please, stay down.”

I nod and stretch out next to him on the right, being careful not to aggravate his injuries. With the door open, some of the smoke in the room is beginning to clear out, and I can breathe freely for the first time since the explosion.

Julian releases my wrist and slides his arm under my neck, gathering me against him in a protective embrace. My hand accidentally brushes against his ribs, causing him to hiss in pain, but when I try to scoot back, he merely holds me tighter.

When Peter and the guards step through the door a few minutes later, they find us lying in each other’s arms, with Julian pointing the AK-47 at the door.

Chapter 29

Julian

“How is she?” Lucas asks, sitting down on the chair next to my bed. There is a thick bandage on his head, and he has to use crutches for his broken leg. Other than that, he’s already on the mend. He was unconscious in another room when Al-Quadar attacked the Uzbekistani hospital and thus missed all the fun.

“She’s . . . okay, I think.” I press a button to get the bed into a half-sitting position. My ribs ache at the motion, but I ignore the discomfort. Pain has been my constant companion since the crash, and I’m more or less used to it at this point.

Ever since our rescue from that construction site in Tajikistan five days ago, Nora and I have been recuperating in a special facility in Switzerland. It’s a private clinic staffed with top doctors from all over the world, and I’ve had Lucas personally supervise the security here. Of course, with the most dangerous cells of Al-Quadar eliminated, there’s less of an immediate threat, but it still pays to be cautious. I’ve had all of my injured men transferred here as well, so they could recover faster and in a nicer environment.

The room Nora and I share is state-of-the-art, equipped with everything from video games to a private shower. There are two adjustable beds—one for me and one for Nora—with Egyptian cotton sheets and memory foam mattresses on each. Even the heart-rate monitors and IV drips positioned around the beds look sleek, more decorative than medical. The whole setup is so luxurious, I can almost forget I’m in yet another hospital.

Almost, but not quite.

If I never set foot inside a hospital again, I will die a happy man.

To my tremendous relief, all of Nora’s injuries turned out to be minor. The wound on her arm needed a few stitches, but the blow to her face left only a nasty bruise on her cheekbone. The doctors also confirmed that she hadn’t been sexually assaulted, despite her state of undress. Within a few hours of our arrival here, Nora was pronounced healthy and ready to go home.

I, on the other hand, am a bit worse off, though not nearly as fucked up as I could’ve been.

They’ve already performed two operations on me—one to minimize the scarring on my face, and the second one to put a prosthetic eye into the vacant eye socket, so I don’t resemble a cyclops. I will never be able to see out of my left eye again—at least not until bionic eye technology advances further—but the surgeons have assured me that I’m going to look nearly normal once everything is healed.

My other injuries aren’t too bad either. They had to reset my broken arm and wrap it in a new cast, but the gunshot wound in my left shoulder is healing nicely, as are my cracked ribs. I still have some crusted blood under my fingernails and toenails from the needle torture, but it’s gradually getting better. The beating Majid’s men gave me at the end bruised my kidneys a bit. However, thanks to Peter’s prompt arrival, I escaped other internal injuries and more broken bones. When all is said and done, I will have a few more scars—and potentially some weakness in my left arm—but my appearance won’t scare little children.

I’m grateful for that. I’ve never been particularly vain about my looks, but I want to make sure that Nora still finds me attractive, that I don’t disgust her with my touch. She’s assured me that my scars and bruises don’t bother her, but I don’t know if she really means it. Because of my injuries, we haven’t had sex since our rescue, and I won’t know how she truly feels until I have her in my bed again.

In general, I’m not sure how Nora has been feeling for the past five days. With all the surgeries and doctors in the way, we haven’t had a chance to talk about what happened. Whenever I bring it up, she changes the topic, as though she wants to forget the whole thing. I would let her—except she’s also been unusually quiet. Withdrawn in some way. It’s as if the trauma she’s gone through has caused her to retreat within herself . . . to shut down her emotions in some manner.