Page 46 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Alex

Alex remembered the dreams. She was five years old and the doctor was getting ready to cut the wrong heart open. He’d been

handsome at least, the doctor. Grumpy, but kind, and she’d trusted him even though he thought she was Zoe. Even though he

didn’t know the ways she was the weak one. Even though he didn’t know that she was the twin who really needed saving.

When Alex blinked open her eyes, she didn’t recognize the ceiling or the sheets or the pain shooting through her side. Her

mouth was dry and her skin itched and—

Morphine. That’s how she always felt on—

Alex reached under the pillow but there wasn’t a gun, and that was when she knew she was in trouble.

That room and that bed and that pain. It was the kind she wasn’t used to. Usually, Alex only hurt on the inside. But now...

There was the sound of running water. A light under a door. And Alex knew she should have been terrified because she was in

no shape to fight. But, somehow, a part of her knew she wouldn’t have to.

The door opened on creaky hinges, swinging on its own because the house was too haunted or too old, and that was when she

saw him.

A single light burned over an old-fashioned sink. There was a mirror on the wall and black-and-white tiles on the floor and

a shirtless Michael Kingsley running his forearms under the faucet like a surgeon prepping for an operation.

She watched the water turn red as King’s arms went back to their right color, and Alex didn’t know it was possible to sway

while lying down.

“Whose blood is that?”

He turned off the water and grabbed a towel and came toward her, bare feet almost silent in the dark.

“No one. Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t no one. And that was why Alex wanted to claw her own skin off.

“Hey. No.” King was reaching for her. “Lie back down.”

“What happened?” Alex hated how her voice broke, too weak and soft and fractured. She didn’t want to let him see her like

this, but there wasn’t a soul on Earth she’d trade him for, and she didn’t understand it. It was like that bed. She couldn’t

remember how she got there, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to settle in.

She pointed to the bloodstained sink. “Is it mine?”

She watched him think about the answer. The lights were out and the sun wasn’t up, but she could see him better in the shadows.

It was their place in the world, neither light nor dark, day nor night. They were professionally gray, and he might have been

the only person in the world who understood, but before she could get the words out, Alex closed her eyes, wishing her life

wasn’t just some unending conversation of things she couldn’t say.

“Who, King?”

“It’s not yours.” He smoothed her hair away from her forehead, then rested a hand on her face—not like he was feeling for

a fever, but like he just wanted to feel her , so Alex closed her eyes and leaned against his palm, relishing the coolness of Michael Kingsley until—

“I’ve got to go.” She threw the covers off. “The sun’s almost up and—”

“Get back in bed.”

“I need to keep moving. Protocol—”

“The hell with protocol. Put your feet on the bed, Sterling.”

“I need to call it in. I need—”

“Alex!” King snapped, but it was the sound of her own name that stopped her. She wasn’t Sterling anymore—not even Alexandra.

“You’re clean.” His voice was so soft, so close. “You’re good.”

She glanced at the bathroom again, streaks of red on white, and Alex grew even more afraid of the answer.

“Whose blood is that?”

He couldn’t touch her anymore. “It’s not yours.”

“King...” If he could do it... “Michael?”

He couldn’t face her anymore. “No one is going to come looking for you. It’s taken care of. It’s done.”

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. The look on his face—the way his eyes couldn’t meet hers—it was all she needed.

All that mattered.

He wasn’t that guy. He’d always been dangerous and intense and lethal, but he wasn’t that guy . He was...

“Michael.” Alex’s voice cracked. Her lips quivered. Her whole body was starting to shake and she didn’t know if it was fear

or shock, she just knew that her teeth were starting to rattle in a way that only happened in cartoons. She couldn’t make

herself stop shaking. She couldn’t make herself stop feeling.

She couldn’t make it stop. “King...”

“Shhh. Easy. Rest.”

She was back in bed then, covers wrapped around her, and she wasn’t even sure how it had happened. She just knew Michael Kingsley

was leaning over her, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“I’m too cold.” She was still shaking and she didn’t even know how to stop.

The sun was almost up and the sky was the color of doves. Little strips of light fell over a room with high ceilings and ornate

moldings. The bed was some kind of antique, made for another era. Ethereal and gorgeous, but there wasn’t another stick of

furniture in the room, so it wasn’t a surprise when he said, “That’s my only blanket. Stay here.” Like she was going anywhere.

“I’ll turn up the heat.”

But Alex had a hold of his arm and she couldn’t let go. She didn’t know why. She just knew that he was as much a part of her

as an IV. He’d have to be ripped out.

There had been lectures at the Farm about first aid and body heat, so she wasn’t only thinking about Zoe’s favorite novels when she threw back the covers and whispered, “Come to bed.”

They had to share because they were both exhausted. It didn’t matter that King thought the threat was over, there were always

new threats—a whole world full of them. He needed his rest, and she highly doubted there were any other beds.

But she didn’t say any of that, because Michael Kingsley was a very good spy. He knew a lie when he heard one. So he slipped

between the covers, and, for the first time, Alex stopped shaking.

He tugged until her head rested on his shoulder and his arms held her tight.

“Does it hurt?”

It did, but not in the way he was asking.

“Michael...”

“Shh.”

“Where’s Tyler?”

“On his way back to Langley.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know how she felt—relieved or disappointed? The night was fuzzy. She remembered... very little. “It wasn’t

his fault. We split up.”

“He let you out of his sight. It was his fault.”

“I’m a professional.”

“He went in with no plan, and you got hurt.”

“How did you know there was no plan?”

“ Because you got hurt .”

His body had gone taut with tension. It took all of Alex’s strength to admit, “I got made.”

“You’re clean.”

“The shooter—”

“Won’t bother you.”

“But—”

“I found him,” King blurted. “He won’t talk.”

“But—”

“He can’t talk, Alex,” King said, harder now. “He won’t talk. Ever again.” She wanted to ask a million questions, but he just squeezed her tighter. “No one is ever going to hurt you again.”

When Alex closed her eyes, she felt something soft and wet brush across her forehead, but that was silly. She was imagining

things. It must have been the drugs. The blood loss. It must have been anything else because Michael Kingsley didn’t give

forehead kisses.

But when he said, “Sleep,” for the first time in her life, Alex did exactly as she was told.