Chapter 76

When I enter the main cabin, I see Julian sitting on the couch, an open laptop on the table in front of him. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up, exposing tan, muscular forearms, and there is a frown of concentration on his face. He looks serious—and so devastatingly beautiful that my breath catches for a moment.

As though sensing my presence, he looks up, his blue eyes gleaming. "How are you, my pet?" he asks, his voice low and intimate, and I feel a hot flush moving over my entire body in response.

"I'm fine." I don't know what else to say. My butt hurts because you whipped me, but that's okay because you trained me to enjoy it? Yeah, sure.

His lips curl in a slow smile. "Good. I'm glad to hear it. I was just about to come get you. You should get into your seat—we'll be landing soon."

"Okay." I follow his suggestion, trying not to flinch at the pain caused by the simple act of sitting down. I will definitely have bruises for the next few days.

Strapping myself in, I look out the window, curious about our destination. As the plane breaks through the cloud cover, I see a large city spread out below, with mountains looming on the edge of it. "What city is that?" I ask, turning towards Julian.

"Bogotá," he replies, closing his laptop. Picking it up, he walks over to sit down next to me. "We'll only be there for a few hours."

"You have business there?"

"You could say that." He looks vaguely amused. "There is something I'd like to get done before we fly to the estate."

"What?" I inquire warily. An amused Julian is rarely a good sign.

"You'll see." And opening the laptop again, he focuses on whatever he was doing before.

* * *

A black car similar to the one that dropped us off at the airport waits for us when we get off the plane. Lucas assumes the role of our driver again, while Julian continues working on his laptop, seemingly absorbed in his task.

I don't mind. I'm too busy staring at everything as we drive through the crowded streets. Bogotá has a certain 'Old World' vibe that I find fascinating. I can see traces of its Spanish heritage everywhere, mixed with a uniquely Latino flavor. It makes me crave arepas—corn cakes that I used to get from a Colombian food truck in downtown Chicago.

"Where are we going?" I ask Julian when the car pulls up in front of a stately old church in a wealthy-looking neighborhood. Somehow I hadn't pictured my captor as the church-going type.

Instead of answering, he climbs out of the car and extends his hand to me. "Come, Nora," he says. "We don't have a lot of time."