Page 44 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

King

Every family has their legacy. Some are fame or fortune. Some are bad reputations and the universal knowledge that only a

fool would lend them money.

The Kingsleys were known for their brains.

Literally. His grandfather’s legendary memory. The fact that Michael, somehow, had it too (though Merritt once confessed that

his might be even better). But King knew something most people didn’t—that the Kingsleys’ real legacies were pessimism and

preparation.

They saw contingencies a thousand yards off. They ate worst-case scenarios for breakfast. No one could predict the future,

but if they tried hard enough, spies named Michael Kingsley were quite good at knowing what was coming, or so he’d always

thought.

He’d been wrong, though.

Because never in a million years would he have been ready for her.

“Sterling!” He shook her, just a little. Even though he didn’t want to jostle her—hurt her. He just needed her to wake up

and tell him he was an asshole. He just needed her... “Alex!”

Luckily, three generations of pessimism meant he was at least somewhat prepared, or so he told himself, as he carried her

limp body through the empty apartment and laid her on the old settee by the window.

He ripped open her shirt and looked down at the too-red blood against her too-white skin.

She shouldn’t be here.

She shouldn’t be like this.

She should have had backup and medical help and something and someone so much better than him.

But maybe she did have those things? Maybe she’d chosen him anyway?

“No.” The word was a whimper, low and thin like paper. “No.” She was tossing. Turning. King had to hold her down. “No. Hurts.”

She was delirious and maybe dying. That’s the only way she’d ever say such a thing to him.

“I know, sweetheart. I know. Shhh. I have you. Hang on.”

There were supplies in the closet, and King didn’t waste any time. He cordoned off the parts of his brain that were trying

to panic and went back to the basics to start at the beginning.

Entry wound.

Exit wound.

And a hell of a lot of blood.

“No.” She tried to fight, but she was no stronger than a kitten who hadn’t found her claws yet. “No.”

“Yes, Alex. Shh. Easy.”

He had to get her sewn up. He had to give her something for the pain. He had to think.

He couldn’t think.

For the first time in his life, his brain stopped working.

“No! No.”

“Shh.”

“Please don’t cut me open!”

“It’s okay. It was a through-and-through. You’re—”

“I’m not her. I’m not her. I’m not—” Was she undercover? Was she targeted? “I’m not Zoe.” She was clawing at his chest. She was going to hurt herself even more. Then she bolted upright, but she didn’t

feel the pain. There was nothing but guilt on her face when she said, “I’m the one who killed her.”

And then she collapsed against the bloodstained velvet as King found a vein and plunged a needle into her arm.

“No.”

“It’s morphine. Shhh. It’s okay.”

“No...” She tried to turn. “King.” He stopped moving. “I need...”

“I’m here. What, Alex? What do you need?”

Her eyes opened. She was almost herself when she said, “ You. ”

***

“Alex?” Her eyelids fluttered, and she came, slowly, awake, and King tried to keep the panic out of his voice. But he had

to talk to her. It had already been an hour and they were running out of time. He had to know—

Was she clean? Was she followed? Was someone going to come bursting through that door to finish the job?

Dark eyelashes fluttered on pale cheeks, and he wondered if it might already be too late.

“Alex, come on. Wake up and fight me.” He was cleaning the wound and had to warn her—“You’re gonna hate me for this, but...”

The alcohol hit the wound, and she jerked. “Already do.”

To King, it sounded like music.

“Hey.” He looked into her eyes. How had he never noticed how green they were?

“Love what you’ve done with the place.” Every word hurt, he could tell, but she choked them out anyway because she was still

Alexandra Sterling and he wouldn’t have wanted her any other way.

But then she coughed and curled in on herself in agony. She was going to need more morphine. But first...

“Who did this to you?” King didn’t recognize his own voice, it got so dark so quickly.

“Doesn’t”—she twisted, as if the settee and not the hole in her side was causing her discomfort—“matter.”

“It matters.” It did, and he didn’t even bother to explain why. “Who, Sterling? Tell me.” She looked up at him, gaze a little

hazy, from the pain or from the meds. So he used a bloody hand to push her hair back. “Tell me. I need to know.”

He would know—either then or in the future. He’d find out. And then he’d find them. And then...

“Who, Sterling?”

“Russians.” She closed her eyes and exhaled the word. “Kozlov.”

Kozlov. Of course it was Kozlov.

“Were you jumped? Are you compromised? Listen to me—Sterling. Alex! Stay with me. Is this about Amalfi?”

She winced as she shook her head, but it must have hurt more to speak. “New op.”

“Were you followed? Do I need to get you out of here?”

“I don’t think so.”

King felt his pulse slow down. His adrenaline was fading, and so was hers, which meant the pain was going to get stronger.

She’d need another shot soon. But first he had to know—

“What was the op, sweetheart?”

“Tyler. Tyler ran it. It was fine.”

It wasn’t fine , but King just smiled and smoothed her hair and gave her a little more morphine before he watched her fade, bliss on her

face for one split second.

“Michael...”

“Sleep, sweetheart. Sleep. You’re safe here. I’ve got you.”

He had her.

And he hated that, very soon, he’d have to let her go.