I’m finally in my Gmail. My heart hammering in my chest, I search for the last email from Peter.

Bang. The door shakes from a hard kick.

My nausea intensifies, my pulse racing as I find the email.

Bang. Bang. More kicks against the door as I click “reply” and attach the list.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I hit “Send”—and the door flies off the hinges, crashing to the floor in front of me.

Julian is standing there naked, his eyes like icy blue slits in his beautiful face. His powerful hands are clenched into fists, and his nostrils are flared, spots of color burning high on his cheekbones.

He’s magnificent and terrifying, like an enraged archangel.

“Give me the laptop, Nora.” His voice is frighteningly calm. “Now.”

Bile rises in my throat, forcing me to swallow convulsively. Standing up, I walk over to him on trembling legs and hand over the computer.

He takes it from me with one hand and, before I can back away, wraps the other one around my right wrist, shackling me to him.

Then he looks at the screen.

I see the exact moment when he realizes what I did.

“You sent it to him?” Setting the computer down on the bathroom counter, he grabs my other arm and drags me closer to him. His eyes burn with fury. “You fucking sent it to him?” He gives me a hard shake, his fingers biting into my skin.

My stomach somersaults, nausea washing over me in sickening wave. “Julian, let go—”

And jerking out of his hold with desperation-fueled strength, I dive for the toilet bowl, just barely reaching it before I throw up.

“How long have you had this nausea?” Dr. Goldberg takes my pulse as I lie on the bed, with Julian pacing around the room like a caged jaguar.

“I don’t know,” I say, my eyes tracking Julian’s movements. He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans now, but his feet are still bare. He’s making circles in front of the bed, every muscle in his body taut and his jaw tightly clenched.

He’s either still mad at me, or madly worried about me. I’m guessing it’s a combination of the two. Within minutes of my throwing up, he had the doctor in our room and me bundled comfortably on the bed.

It reminds me of how quickly he acted when I got appendicitis on the island.

“I think I just ate something bad or maybe caught a virus,” I say, turning my attention back to the doctor. “I started feeling sick at dinner.”

“Uh-huh.” Dr. Goldberg takes out a plastic-wrapped needle with a tube attached to a vial. “May I?”

“Okay.” I don’t particularly want him to take my blood, but I have a feeling Julian won’t let me refuse. “Go ahead.”

The doctor finds a vein in my arm and slides the needle in while I look away. I’m still slightly nauseous and don’t want to test my stomach’s fortitude with the sight of blood.