Chapter 2

Jennie

Stunned, I watch Lisa's naked form disappear into the bathroom. She's hampered by her injuries, her movements stiffer than usual. Still, there is a certain grace to the way she walks. Even after her hellish ordeal, her body is strong and athletic, the white bandage around her ribs emphasizing the width of her shoulders.

She didn't object to the morning-after pill.

As that fact sinks in, my knees go weak with relief, the adrenaline-induced tension draining out in a sudden whoosh. I had been almost certain she would deny me this; the expression on her face as we spoke had been shuttered, unreadable . . . dangerous in its opaqueness. She had seen right through my flimsy excuses about my school and her injuries, her undamaged eye gleaming with a cold green light that made my stomach knot in dread.

But she didn't deny me the pill. On the contrary, she suggested I get a new method of birth control from Dr. Goldberg.

I feel almost light-headed with joy. Lisa must be on board with the no-kids bit, her strange reaction notwithstanding.

Not wanting to question my good fortune, I hurry out of the room to grab Dr. Goldberg. I want to make sure I get what I need before we leave the clinic.

Birth control implants aren't easy to come by in our jungle compound.

"I took the pill," I tell Lisa when we're comfortably ensconced on her private jet—the same plane that took us from Chicago to Colombia after Lisa returned for me in December. "And I got this." I raise my right arm to show her a tiny bandage where the new implant went in. My arm aches dully, but I'm so happy to have the implant that I don't mind the discomfort.

Lisa looks up from her laptop, her expression still closed off. "Good," she says curtly, and resumes working on the email to one of her engineers. She's outlining the exact specifications of a new drone she wants designed. I know this because I asked her about it a few minutes ago, and she explained what she's doing. She's been much more open with me in the past couple of months—which is why I find it odd that she seems to want to avoid the topic of birth control.

I wonder if she doesn't want to discuss it because of Dr. Goldberg's presence. The short man is sitting at the front of the jet, more than a dozen feet from us, but we don't have total privacy. Either way, I decide to let it go for now and bring it up again at a more opportune moment.

As the plane ascends, I entertain myself by watching the Swiss Alps until we get above the clouds. Then I lean back and wait for the beautiful flight attendant—Isabella—to come around with our breakfast. We left the hospital so quickly this morning that I only managed to grab a cup of coffee.

Isabella comes into the cabin a few minutes later, her bombshell body squeezed into a tight red dress. She's holding a tray with coffee and a platter of pastries. Goldberg appears to have fallen asleep, so she heads toward us, her lips curved in a seductive smile.

The first time I saw her, when Lisa came back for me in December, I was insanely jealous. Since then I've learned that Isabella has never had a relationship with Lisa and is actually married to one of the guards at the estate—two facts that have gone a long way toward soothing the green-eyed monster within me. I've only seen the woman once or twice in the past couple of months; unlike most of Lisa's employees, she spends the majority of her time outside the compound, working as her eyes and ears at several high-end private jet companies.

"You'd be surprised how loose-lipped people get after a couple of drinks at thirty thousand feet," Lisa explained once. "Executives, politicians, cartel bosses . . . They all like having Isabella around, and they don't always watch what they say in her presence. Thanks to her, I've gotten everything from insider trading tips to intel about drug deals in the area."

So yeah, I'm no longer quite as jealous of Isabella, but I still can't help feeling that her manner with Lisa is a little too flirtatious for a married woman. Then again, I'm probably not the best judge of appropriate married-woman behavior. If I were to stare at any man longer than a second, I would be signing his death warrant.

Lisa takes possessiveness to a whole new level.

"Would you like some coffee?" Isabella asks, stopping next to her seat. She's more circumspect in her staring today, but I still feel the urge to slap her pretty face for the come-hither smile she gives my wife.

Okay, so Lisa is not the only one with possessiveness issues. As messed up as it is, I feel proprietary about the woman who abducted me. It makes no sense, but I gave up trying to make sense of my crazy relationship with Lisa a long time ago.

It's easier to just accept it.

At Isabella's question, Lisa looks up from her laptop. "Sure," she says before glancing in my direction. "Jennie?"

"Yes, please," I say politely. "And a couple of those croissants."

Isabella pours us each a cup, sets the pastry platter on my table, and sashays back to the front of the plane, her lushly curved hips swaying from side to side. I experience a moment of envy before reminding myself that Lisa wants me.

She wants me too much, in fact, but that's a whole other issue.

For the next half hour, I read quietly as I eat my croissants and sip my coffee. Lisa appears to be concentrating on her drone design email, so I don't bother her; 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 Lisa again.

My heart starts beating faster, the images from this morning's nightmare invading my mind with startling clarity. Blood . . . Lisa's body cut and mangled . . . Her 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.

"Jennie?" Strong, warm fingers close around my wrist, and through the panicked haze veiling my vision, I see Lisa's bandaged face in front of me. She's gripping me tightly, her laptop forgotten on the table next to her. "Jennie, 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." Lisa's voice is soothing as her hand comes up to gently cradle my jaw. "Breathe slowly, deeply . . . There's a good girl . . ."

I do as she says, keeping my eyes on her 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 Lisa's palm and pull her 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."

She stares at me, her eye glittering, and I see a mixture of rage and frustration in her gaze. Her fingers are still gripping mine, as if reluctant to let go. "You're not okay, Jennie," she says harshly. "You're anything but okay."

She's right. I don't want to admit it, but she's right. I haven't been okay since Lisa left the estate to hunt down the terrorists. I've been a mess since her departure—and I seem to be even more of a mess now that she's back.

"I'm fine," I say, not wanting her to think me weak. Lisa was tortured, and she seems to be handling it, whereas I'm falling apart for no good reason.

"Fine?" Her eyebrows snap together. "In the past twenty-four hours, you've had two panic attacks and a nightmare. That's not fine, Jennie."

I swallow and look down at my lap, where her hand is holding mine in a tight, possessive grip. I hate the fact that I can't just brush this stuff off, the way Lisa seems to. Sure, she still has some nightmares about Ruby, but this ordeal with the terrorists appears to have hardly fazed her. By all rights, she should be the one freaking out, not me. I was barely touched, whereas she'd undergone days of torment.

I'm weak, and I hate it.

"Jennie, baby, listen to me."

I look up, drawn by the softer note in Lisa's voice, and find myself captured by her gaze.

"This is not your fault," she says quietly. "Any of it. You've been through a lot, and you're traumatized. You don't need to pretend with me. If you start to panic, tell me, and I'll help you through it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," I whisper, strangely relieved by her words. I know it's ironic that the person who brought all the darkness into my life is helping me cope with it, but it's been that way from the beginning.

I've always found solace in my captor's arms.

"Good. Remember that." She leans over to kiss me, and I meet her halfway, cognizant of her injured ribs. Her lips are unusually tender as they touch mine, and I close my eyes, my remaining anxiety fading as heated need warms my core. My hands find themselves on the back of her neck, and a moan vibrates low in my throat as her tongue invades my mouth, her taste familiar and darkly seductive at the same time.

She groans as I kiss her back, my tongue curling around her. Her right arm wraps around my back, bringing me closer to her, and I feel the growing tension in her powerful body. Her breathing speeds up, and her kiss turns hard, devouring, making my body throb in response.

"Bedroom. Now." Her words are more of a growl as she tears her mouth away and rises to her feet, dragging me up off my seat. Before I can say anything, she wraps her fingers around my wrist and marches me toward the back of the plane. I give mental thanks that Dr. Goldberg is sound asleep and Isabella went back to the front of the plane; nobody's there to see Lisa dragging me off to bed.

As we enter the small room, she kicks the door shut behind us and pulls me toward the bed. Even injured, she's incredibly strong. Her strength both arouses and intimidates me. Not because I'm afraid she'll hurt me—I know she will, and I know I'll enjoy it—but because I've seen what she can do.

I've seen her kill a man with nothing more than a leg of a chair.

The memory should disgust me, but somehow it's exciting as well as scary. Then again, Lisa is not the only one who's taken a life this week.

We're both killers now.

"Strip," she commands, stopping a couple of feet from the bed and releasing my wrist. The sleeves of her button-down shirt are ripped out to accommodate the cast on her left arm, and with the bandage across her face, she looks wounded and dangerous at the same time—like a modern-day pirate after a raid. Her right arm is firm, and her uncovered eye is startlingly brown in her beautiful face.

I love her so much it hurts.

Taking a step back, I begin to undress. My blouse is first, followed by my jeans. When I'm wearing only a white thong and a matching bra, Lisa says hoarsely, "Climb on the bed. I want you on all fours, with your ass toward me."

Heat slithers down my spine, intensifying the growing ache between my legs. Turning, I do as she says, my heart pounding with nervous anticipation. I remember the last time we had sex on this plane—and the bruises that decorated my thighs for days afterwards. I know Lisa is not well enough for anything that strenuous, but that knowledge doesn't diminish my trepidation or my hunger.

With my wife, fear and desire go hand in hand.

When I'm positioned to Lisa's satisfaction, with my ass at the height of her groin, she steps closer to me and hooks her fingers in the waistband of my underwear, pulling it down to my knees. I quiver at her touch, my sex clenching, and she groans, her hand trailing up my thigh to delve between my folds. "Your pussy is so fucking wet," she whispers roughly as she pushes two large fingers into me. "So wet for me, and so tight . . . You want this, don't you, baby? You want me to take you, to fuck you . . ."

I gasp as she curls those fingers, hitting a spot that makes my whole body go taut. "Yes . . ." I can barely speak as waves of heat wash over me, clouding my mind. "Yes, please . . ."

She chuckles, the sound low and filled with dark delight. Her fingers withdraw, leaving me empty and pulsing with need. Before I can object, I hear the sound of a zipper being pulled down and feel the smooth, broad head of her cock brushing against my thighs.

"Oh, I will," she murmurs thickly, guiding herself toward my opening. "I will please you so fucking well"—the tip of her cock penetrates me, making my breath catch in my throat—"you'll scream for me. Won't you, baby?"

And not waiting for my response, she grips my right hip and pushes in all the way, startling a gasping cry out of my throat. As always, her entry batters my senses, her thickness stretching me nearly to the point of pain. If I hadn't been so turned on, she would've hurt me. As it is, her roughness only adds a delicious edge, intensifying my arousal and inundating my sex with more moisture. With my underwear down around my knees, I can't open my legs any wider, and she feels enormous inside me, every inch of her hard and burning hot.

I expect her to set a brutal pace to match that first thrust, but now that she's in, she moves slowly. Slowly and deliberately, her every movement calculated to maximize my pleasure. In and out, in and out . . . It feels like she's stroking me from the inside, teasing out every bit of sensation my body is capable of producing. In and out, in and out . . . I'm close to orgasm, but I can't get there, not with her moving at this snail's pace. In and out . . .

"Lisa," I groan, and she slows her pace even more, causing me to whimper in frustration.

"Tell me what you want, baby," she murmurs, withdrawing almost all the way. "Tell me exactly what you want."

"Fuck me," I breathe out, my hands fisting in the sheets. "Please, just make me come."

She chuckles again, but the sound is strained, her breathing turning heavy and uneven. I feel her cock thickening further inside me, and I squeeze my inner muscles around it, willing her to move just a little faster, to give me that extra bit I need . . .

And she finally does.

Holding my hip, she picks up the pace, fucking me harder and faster. Her thrusts reverberate through me, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating out from my core. My hands clutch at the sheets, my cries growing in volume as the tension inside me becomes unbearable, intolerable . . . and then I splinter into a million pieces, my body pulsing helplessly around her massive shaft. She groans, her fingers digging into my flesh as her grip on my hip tightens, and I feel her grinding against my ass, her cock jerking inside me as she finds her release.

When it's all over, she withdraws from me and takes a step back. Shaking from the intensity of my orgasm, I collapse onto my side and turn my head to look at her.

She's standing there with her jeans unzipped, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Her gaze is filled with lingering desire as she stares at me, her eye glued to my thighs, where her seed is slowly leaking out of my opening.

I flush and glance around the room, searching for a tissue. Thankfully, there is a box on a shelf near the bed. I reach for it and use a tissue to wipe away the evidence of our joining.

Lisa observes my actions silently. Then she steps back, her expression growing shuttered again as she tucks her softening cock back inside her jeans and pulls up the zipper.

Grabbing the blanket, I draw it up to cover my naked body. I feel cold and exposed all of a sudden, the heat inside me dissipating. Normally, Lisa would hold me after sex, reinforcing our closeness and using tenderness to balance out the roughness. Today, however, she doesn't seem inclined to do that.

"Is everything okay?" I ask hesitantly. "Did I do something wrong?"

She gives me a cool smile and sits down on the bed next to me. "What could you have done wrong, my pet?" Looking at me, she lifts her hand and picks up a lock of my hair, rubbing it between her fingers. Despite the playfulness of her gesture, there is a hard gleam in her eye that deepens my unease.

I experience a sudden flash of intuition. "It's the morning-after pill, isn't it? Are you upset because I took it?"

"Upset? Because you don't want a child with me?" She laughs, but there is a harshness to the sound that twists my stomach into knots. "No, my pet, I'm not upset. I would make an awful parent, and I know it."

I stare at her, trying to understand why her words are making me feel guilty. She's a killer and a sadist, a person who ruthlessly abducted me and kept me captive, and yet I feel bad—as if I inadvertently hurt her.

As if I truly did something wrong.

"Lisa . . ." I don't know what to say. I can't lie that she would make a good mother. She would see right through me. So instead I ask cautiously, "Do you want to have children?"

Then I hold my breath, waiting for her answer.

She looks at me, her expression unreadable once more. "No, Jennie," she says quietly. "The last thing you and I need are children. You can have all the birth control implants you want. I won't force you to get pregnant."

I exhale in sharp relief. "Okay, good. So then why—"

Before I can conclude the question, Lisa rises to her feet, signaling an end to our discussion. "I'll be in the main cabin," she says evenly. "I have some work to do. Come join me when you get dressed."

And with that, she disappears from the room, leaving me lying in bed naked and confused.