For the next half hour, I read quietly as I eat my croissants and sip my coffee. Julian appears to be concentrating on his drone design email, so I don’t bother him; instead, I do my best to focus on my book, a sci-fi thriller I bought at the clinic. My attention, however, keeps wandering, my thoughts straying every couple of pages.

It feels odd to be sitting here reading. Surreal, in a way. It’s as if nothing had happened. As if we hadn’t just survived terror and torture.

As if I hadn’t blown a man’s brains out in cold blood.

As if I hadn’t almost lost Julian again.

My heart starts beating faster, the images from this morning’s nightmare invading my mind with startling clarity. Blood… Julian’s body cut and mangled… His beautiful face with vacant eye sockets… The book slips out of my shaking hands, falling to the floor as I attempt to suck in air through a suddenly constricted throat.

“Nora?” Strong, warm fingers close around my wrist, and through the panicked haze veiling my vision, I see Julian’s bandaged face in front of me. He’s gripping me tightly, his laptop forgotten on the table next to him. “Nora, can you hear me?”

I manage to nod, my tongue coming out to wet my lips. My mouth is dry with fear, and my blouse is sticking to my back from perspiration. My hands are clutching the edge of the seat, my nails digging into the soft leather. A part of me knows that my mind is playing tricks on me—that this extreme anxiety is unfounded—but my body is reacting as if the threat is real.

As if we’re back at that construction site in Tajikistan, at the mercy of Majid and the other terrorists.

“Breathe, baby.” Julian’s voice is soothing as his hand comes up to gently cradle my jaw. “Breathe slowly, deeply… There’s a good girl…”

I do as he says, keeping my eyes on his face as I take deep breaths to manage my panic. After a minute, my heartbeat slows, and my hands uncurl from the edge of my seat. I’m still shaking, but the suffocating fear is gone.

Feeling embarrassed, I wrap my fingers around Julian’s palm and pull his hand away from my face. “I’m okay,” I manage to say in a relatively steady voice. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

He stares at me, his eye glittering, and I see a mixture of rage and frustration in his gaze. His fingers are still gripping mine, as if reluctant to let go. “You’re not okay, Nora,” he says harshly. “You’re anything but okay.”

He’s right. I don’t want to admit it, but he’s right. I haven’t been okay since Julian left the estate to hunt down the terrorists. I’ve been a mess since his departure—and I seem to be even more of a mess now that he’s back.

“I’m fine,” I say, not wanting him to think me weak. Julian was tortured, and he seems to be handling it, whereas I’m falling apart for no good reason.