She blinks, as if startled by my question. “I’m not upset.”
“Don’t lie to me, my pet.” Releasing her hand, I gently grasp her chin and look into her shadowed eyes. “Do you think I don’t know you by now? I can see that you’ve been different since Tajikistan, and I want to understand why.”
“Julian . . .” Her voice holds a pleading note. “Please, I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Why not? Do you think I don’t get it? Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to kill for the first time and live with the knowledge that you took a human life?” I pause, watching for a reaction. When I see none, I continue, “We both know that Majid deserved it, but it’s normal to feel like shit afterwards. You need to talk about it, so you can begin to come to terms with everything that happened—”
“No, Julian,” she interrupts, the careful blankness of her gaze giving way to a sudden flare of anger. “You don’t get it. I know Majid deserved to die, and I’m not sorry that I killed him. I have no doubt that the world is a better place without him.”
“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.”