It disturbs me, this development. I had been hoping that seeing Nora every day and having her as my wife would quell this desperate hunger I feel for her all the time, but just the opposite seems to be happening. I resent every minute that I spend away from her, every moment that I’m not touching her. Just like with any addiction, I seem to require larger and larger doses of my chosen drug, my dependence on her increasing until I’m constantly craving my next fix.

I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost her. It’s a fear that makes me wake up in a cold sweat at night and assaults my mind at random times throughout the day. I know that she’s safe here on the estate—nothing short of a direct attack by a full-fledged army can penetrate my security—but I still can’t help worrying, can’t help fearing that she’ll be taken from me somehow. It’s insane, but I’m tempted to keep her chained to my side at all times, so I would know she’s okay.

Casting one last look at her sleeping form, I get up as quietly as I can and head into the shower, forcing my thoughts away from my obsession. I will see Nora again this evening, but first, there is an overnight delivery that requires my attention. As my mind turns to the upcoming task, I smile with grim anticipation.

My Al-Quadar prisoners are waiting.

Lucas had them brought to a storage shed on the far edge of the property. The first thing I notice as I walk in is the stench. It’s an acrid combination of sweat, blood, urine, and desperation. It tells me that Peter has already been hard at work this morning.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light inside the shed, I see that two of the men are tied to metal chairs, while the third is hanging from a hook in the ceiling, strung up by a rope binding his wrists above his head. All three of them are covered in dirt and blood, making it difficult to tell their age or nationality.

I approach one of the seated ones first. His left eye is swollen shut, and his lips are puffy and encrusted with blood. His right eye, though, is glaring at me with fury and defiance. A young man, I decide, studying him closer. Early twenties or late teens, with a straggly attempt at a beard and close-trimmed black hair. I doubt he’s anything more than a foot soldier, but I still intend to question him. Even small fish can occasionally swallow useful bits of information—and then regurgitate them if prompted properly.

“His name is Ahmed,” a deep, faintly accented voice says behind me. Turning, I see Peter standing there, his face as expressionless as always. The fact that I didn’t spot him right away doesn’t surprise me; Peter Sokolov excels at lurking in the shadows. “He was recruited six months ago in Pakistan.”