Keep Me

“So what is it then?” I’m beginning to suspect where this is heading, but I want to hear her say it.

“I killed him,” she says quietly, looking at me. “I stood next to him, looked him in the eye, and pulled the trigger. I didn’t kill him to protect you, or because I had no other choice. I killed him because I wanted to.” She pauses, then adds, her eyes glittering, “I killed him because I wanted to see him die.”

Chapter 30

Nora

Julian stares at me, the expression on his bandaged face unchanged at my revelation. I want to look away, but I can’t, his grip on my chin forcing me to hold his gaze as I lay bare the awful secret that’s been eating at me since our rescue.

His lack of reaction makes me think he doesn’t fully understand what I’m saying.

“I killed him, Julian,” I repeat, determined to make him comprehend now that he forced me to talk about this. “I murdered Majid in cold blood. When I saw him step into the room, I knew what I wanted to do, and I did it. I shot the weapon out of his hand—and when he was unarmed, I shot him again in the stomach and chest, making sure not to hit him in the heart, so he’d live a couple of minutes longer. I could’ve killed him right away, but I didn’t.” My hands squeeze into fists on my lap, my nails digging painfully into my skin as I confess, “I kept him alive because I wanted to look him in the face when I took his life.”

Julian’s unbandaged eye gleams a deeper blue, and I feel a wave of burning shame. I know it doesn’t make sense—I know I’m talking to a man who’s committed crimes far worse than this—but I don’t have the excuse of his fucked-up upbringing. Nobody forced me to become a killer. When I shot Majid that day, I did it of my own initiative.

I killed a man because I hated him and wanted to see him die.

I wait for Julian to respond, to say something either dismissive or condemning, but he asks softly instead, “And how did you feel when it was over, my pet? When he lay there dead?” His hand releases my chin and moves down to rest on my leg, his large palm covering most of my thigh. “Were you glad to see him like that?”

I nod, dropping my gaze to escape his penetrating stare. “Yes,” I admit, a shudder rippling through me as I remember the almost-euphoric high of seeing the bullets from my gun tearing through Majid’s flesh. “When I saw the life leave his eyes, I felt strong. Invincible. I knew he could no longer hurt us, and I was glad.” Gathering my courage, I look up at him again. “Julian . . . I blew a man’s brains out—and the scary thing is I don’t regret it at all.”

“Ah, I see.” A smile tugs at his partially healed lips. “You think you’re a bad person because you feel no guilt over killing a murderous terrorist—and you believe you should.”

“Of course I should.” I frown at the inappropriate amusement in his voice. “I killed a man—and you yourself said that it’s normal to feel shitty about it. You felt bad after your first kill, right?”

“Yes.” Julian’s smile takes on a bitter edge. “I did. I was a child, and I didn’t know the man I was forced to shoot. He was someone who had double-crossed my father, and to this day, I have no idea what kind of person he was . . . whether he was a hardened criminal or just someone who got mixed-up with bad company. I didn’t hate him—I had no opinion about him, really. I killed him to prove that I could do it, to make my father proud of me.” He pauses, then continues, his expression softening, “So you see, my pet, it was different. When you killed Majid, you rid the world of evil, whereas I . . . well, that’s a whole other story. You have no reason to feel bad about what you did, and you’re smart enough to know it.”

I look at him, my throat tightening as I imagine eight-year-old Julian pulling that trigger. I don’t know what to say, how to assuage his guilt over that long-ago event, and anger at Juan Esguerra fills my chest. “You know, if your father were alive, I would shoot him too,” I say savagely, causing Julian to let out a delighted chuckle.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you would,” he says, grinning at me. The expression should’ve looked grotesque on his bruised and swollen face, but somehow it looks sexy instead. Even beat-up, bandaged like a mummy, and with several days’ worth of dark stubble on his jaw, my husband radiates an animal magnetism that transcends mere looks. The doctors told us that his face will be nearly normal once everything is healed, but even if it isn’t, I strongly suspect Julian will be just as seductive with an eye patch and some scars.

As though in response to my thoughts, his hand on my thigh moves higher, toward the juncture between my legs. “My fierce little darling,” he murmurs, his grin fading as a familiar heated gleam appears in his uncovered eye. “So delicate, yet so ferocious . . . I wish you could’ve seen yourself that day, baby. You were magnificent when you faced Majid, so brave and beautiful . . .” His fingers press roughly on my clit through my jeans, and I suck in a startled breath, my nipples hardening as a surge of liquid need dampens my sex.

“Yes, that’s right, baby,” he whispers, his fingers moving upward to my zipper. “You with that weapon was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” The zipper slides down with a metallic hiss, the sound strangely erotic, and my core clenches with a sudden desperate ache.

“Um, Julian . . .” My breathing is uneven, my heartbeat speeding up as Julian’s hand delves into the open fly of my jeans. “What—what are you doing?”