“The human brain is highly unpredictable,” Dr. Wessex says, looking at me through her trendy Prada glasses. “What you think scares you might not be what weighs on your subconscious at all. You may worry about this baby, but it doesn’t frighten you as much as the thought that you might never get a grip on your anxiety. If your panic attacks stem from pregnancy, then you know it’s a temporary issue—and that helps you feel less anxious about it.”

I nod and smile, as if that makes perfect sense. I do that a lot when I talk to her. If Julian didn’t insist that I continue my twice-weekly therapy sessions, I would’ve already stopped them. It’s not that I dislike Dr. Wessex—a tall, stylish woman in her mid-forties, she’s quite competent and seemingly nonjudgmental—but I find that talking to her just highlights the insanity that is my relationship with Julian.

Why, yes, Doctor, my husband—you know, the man who hired you and insisted you come out to the middle of nowhere—kept me captive on his island for fifteen months, and now I’m so brainwashed I can’t live without him and crave abusive sex. Oh, and we’re having a baby. Nothing fucked up about that, of course. Just your regular, run-of-the-mill crime family.

Yeah, sure.

In any case, trying to get me to take naps is the least egregious example of Julian’s excessive coddling. He also monitors my diet, makes sure that the exercise routine I resumed is fully doctor-approved, and worst of all, treats me with kid gloves in bed. No matter how much I try to provoke him, he won’t do more than hold me down in bed. It’s as if he’s afraid to unleash the brutality within himself, to lose control again.

“I told you, the obstetrician said rougher sex is okay as long as there’s no spotting or leaking of amniotic fluid,” I tell Julian after he takes me gently yet again. “I’m healthy, everything’s normal, so there’s really no harm.”

“I’m not taking any chances,” he replies, kissing the outer rim of my ear, and I know he has no intention of listening to me on the topic.

A part of me still can’t believe that I want this from him, that I miss the dark edge to our lovemaking. It’s not that I’m ever left unsatisfied—Julian makes sure I have at least a couple of orgasms every night—but something within me craves the intoxicating blend of pleasure-pain, the endorphin rush I get from truly intense sex. Even the fear he makes me feel is addictive in some way, whether I want to admit it or not.

It’s sick, but the night we learned about my pregnancy—the night he forced me—has featured in my fantasies more than once in recent days.

What Dr. Wessex would say about that I don’t know, and I don’t care to find out. It’s enough that the memory of that trauma, just like the recollections of my time on the island, have somehow taken on an erotic overtone in my mind.