“Well, technically, they want to force me to give them the explosive,” he corrects me, a dark smile curving his lips, “and then they want to kill me. But you have nothing to worry about, baby. We’ll scan their quarters for any signs of bombs before we go in, and we’ll all be wearing full-body armor that can withstand all but a rocket blast.”
I push my plate away, not the least bit reassured. “So let me get this straight . . . You’re forcing me to wear trackers here, where nobody can touch a single hair on my head, and you’re planning to traipse off to Tajikistan to play ‘capture the terrorist’?”
Julian’s smile disappears, his expression hardening. “I’m not playing, Nora. Al-Quadar represents a very real threat, and it’s one that I need to eliminate as quickly as possible. We need to strike at them before they come after us, and this is the perfect opportunity to do that.”
I glare at him, the sheer unfairness of the whole thing making my blood pressure rise. “But why do you have to go in person? You have all these soldiers and mercenaries at your command—surely they don’t need you there—”
“Nora . . .” His voice is gentle, but his eyes are hard and cold, like icicles. “This is not up for debate. The day I start fearing my own shadow is the day I need to leave this business for good—because it will mean that I have grown soft. Soft and lazy, like the man whose factory I took when I was first starting out . . .” He smiles again at my look of shock. “Oh, yes, my pet, how do you think I switched from drugs to weapons? I took over someone’s existing operation and built on it. My predecessor also had soldiers and mercenaries at his command, but he was little more than a glorified paper pusher and everyone knew it. He didn’t keep tight reins on his organization, and it was a simple matter to bribe a few people and overthrow him, taking his rocket factory for my own.” Julian pauses to let me digest that for a second, then adds, “I’m not going to be that man, Nora. This mission is important to me, and I have every intention of overseeing it myself. Majid will not survive this time—I will make sure of that.”
Chapter 18
Julian
After dinner is over, I lead Nora to our bedroom, my hand resting on the small of her back as we walk up the stairs. She’s quiet, like she’s been ever since I explained to her about the upcoming mission, and I know that she’s still upset with me, both about the trackers and the trip itself.
I find her concern touching, even sweet, but I have no intention of passing up this opportunity to lay my hands on Majid. My pet doesn’t understand the dark thrill of being in the middle of action, of feeling the jolt of adrenaline and hearing the whizzing of bullets. She doesn’t realize that to someone like me the sight of blood and the sound of my enemies’ screams are a turn-on, that I crave them almost as much as sex. This trait of mine is why one shrink thought I might be borderline sociopathic . . . well, this and my general lack of remorse. It’s a label that’s never particularly bothered me—at least not once I got past my youthful delusion that I could someday lead a ‘normal’ life.
As we enter the bedroom, the hunger that I’ve been restraining since yesterday intensifies, the monster inside me demanding his due. The distance I’m sensing from Nora only makes it worse. I can feel the barriers she’s trying to erect between us, the way she’s trying to shut me out of her thoughts, and it maddens me, feeding the sadistic yearning coiling within.
I am going to smash those barriers tonight. I am going to tear them down until she has no defenses left—until I own her mind fully again.
She excuses herself to go take a quick shower, and I let her, walking over to the bed to wait for her return. I am already semi-hard, my cock stirring in anticipation of what I’m going to do to her, and my pants are starting to feel uncomfortably tight. Hearing the water turn on, I undress, then reach into the bedside drawer and pull out an assortment of tools I plan to use on her tonight.
True to her word, Nora doesn’t take long. Five minutes, and she’s coming out of the bathroom, a plush white towel wrapped around her petite body. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and her golden skin is damp, droplets of water still clinging to her neck and shoulders. She must’ve taken off the Band-Aids in order to shower, because I can see a tiny scab and some bruising on her arm where the tracker went in. The sight of it fills me with an odd mixture of emotions—relief that I can now always keep an eye on her and something that tastes strangely like regret.