Julian didn't answer immediately. His jaw was a hard line of granite, his eyes fixed on the road with a terrifying, singular focus.
His hand remained clamped on the steering wheel, his knuckles so white they looked like polished bone. Before he could even begin to process the rage simmering in his gut, before he could plan how to systematically dismantle Sebastian Creed's life, he needed the one thing he didn't have.
Certainty.
"Julian, talk to me," Amara pleaded, reaching out to touch his arm.
"We need to know, Amara," he finally said, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over broken glass. "Not according to some phone call Sebastian staged. Not according to a 'feeling.' We are going to see a doctor."
He couldn't even look at her. The thought that his wife, the woman he protected with every fiber of his being, might have been violated in the most intimate, clinical way possible was a poison in his veins.
