Page 42 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Present Day

Somewhere in Portugal

Alex

King hot-wired a car. Ordinarily, Alex would have protested and insisted she do it herself, but she was glad to let him do

the dirty work. She was relieved to watch him drive. It was getting harder and harder to keep her eyes open. And her side

was feeling stickier and stickier. Soon, the adrenaline would fade and something much, much worse would take its place, but

until then...

She was aware, faintly, of him talking to her, asking her questions. Maybe complaining. Definitely growling. It was her fault—whatever

it was. Except it wasn’t and that made it worse, somehow, but she was just too tired to argue.

She closed her eyes.

The world swirled.

She forced them open again because she was afraid that, if she slept, she might dream, and, if she dreamed, she’d hear the

words again:

Because it made you smile.

They hurt more than the bullet.

“Alex?”

Was she out? No. Not quite. “What?”

“You sleeping on the job over there?”

Was that a joke? It sounded like one, but King didn’t joke and nothing felt funny anymore.

“Alex... we’re here.”

We’re where? She thought she said the words, but maybe she didn’t, because he was looking at her oddly. It was the middle of the day,

and the sun was too bright. She wanted the darkness back. Darkness good. Bright light bad.

It almost made her laugh.

“Come on.”

He slammed his door. It took all her strength to open hers. “Where are we?”

“Safe house.”

“No.” Alex shook her head, but the force of it almost tipped her over. “No. The Agency can’t find—”

The world tipped on its axis, and Alex had to reach out to steady herself against the door.

“Hey.” He was too close. He was going to feel how sticky her shirt was or see how pale her skin was or—

“Just tired.”

Somehow she climbed the steps. She watched him open the door. “It’s not one of theirs.” He sounded almost insulted that she

would think otherwise. “It’s clean. Or, well...” He flipped on a light. “Not in the literal sense.”

As soon as she saw the room, she understood. It wasn’t much more than a cabin—stone walls and rough-hewn furniture. The whole

place was covered in a thick layer of cobwebs and dust, and it wouldn’t have surprised her to find out they were the first

people who’d set foot in there for fifty years.

“Welcome to the Kingsley family version of the summer house. Grandfather liked his secrets.” That had to be the understatement

of the century. “He never told the Agency about them.”

“Them?”

“He had a whole network of these back in the day. Safe houses. Seaside cottages and mountain cabins. Old train cars and sewers.

He even had a penthouse.”

Alex went cold. She shivered. “I remember.”

“Oh.” Then King was the one who went pale. “Right.” Alex wanted to laugh, too, but it hurt too much. “You sure you’re okay? You look kind of...”

“Did he tell you about these when you were a kid? Bounce you on his knee and say, ‘In ’61 I got a nuclear scientist over the

wall in a hot-air balloon? Hid him out in a Portuguese rail car for...’” Alex coughed. She caught herself on the back of

a chair, too tired to go on.

King was looking at her oddly. “Something like that. You okay?”

“Fine. Bathroom? I’m assuming...”

“Yeah. Sure.” He pointed to a door. “Through there. I think?”

She closed the door and leaned against a dusty sink. Dust was bad but hot water was good, Alex’s tired brain told her as she

dug in the cabinet. There were sterile packs of gauze. An unopened bottle of rubbing alcohol. It was going to hurt like hell,

but...

She pulled her shirt over her head and looked at the hole in her side. The blood wasn’t too thick. It had stopped flowing,

and the wound was clean and—

The door opened and Alex turned too fast. She watched his eyes go wide and knew it wasn’t because of her second-favorite bra.

No.

She watched him watch her. She waited for the I told you so . For the warning or the scold. It didn’t even hurt—much. But it was also the most pain she’d ever been in as he inched forward

and opened the package of gauze and said, “I have you.”

There was a scar, higher on her side. Old and healed over. It didn’t hurt anymore. She barely even felt it in the shower,

just a part of her she’d gotten used to.

And yet she could feel the moment when he saw it. When his finger brushed against that patch of rough, imperfect skin, it

felt like being licked by a flame.

“I have you.” He was holding the gauze to the wound, but it was the scar he was staring at. “I have you.”

And Alex couldn’t help but whisper, “Again.”