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?”

His lips curve in a wicked half-smile. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“But… but you can’t…” The sentence devolves into a moan as his fingers boldly push into my underwear and cup my sex, his middle finger slipping between my wet folds to massage my throbbing clit. The heat that blasts through my nerve endings feels almost like an electric spark, every hair on my body standing up in response to the zing of pleasure. I gasp, feeling the tension gathering inside me, but before I can reach my peak, Julian’s fingers withdraw, leaving me hovering on the edge.

“Take off your clothes, then climb on top,” he orders hoarsely, pulling back the blanket to reveal a hospital gown tented with a massive erection. “I need to fuck you. Now.”

I hesitate for a moment, worried about his injuries, and Julian’s jaw tightens in displeasure.

“I mean it, Nora. Take those clothes off.”

Gulping, I jump off the bed, unable to believe that I feel the compulsion to obey him even now. His left arm is in a cast, he can barely move without pain, and yet my instinctive response is to fear him—to want him and fear him at the same time.