Page 68 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Alex

The Garnier Opera House might have been one of the most ornate buildings in the world, but the most impressive thing about

the private box wasn’t its view of the stage and the world-class ballerinas. No, it was the white-haired woman who sat near

the back and didn’t even bother to turn when King and Alex slipped inside.

“The seats are better near the rail,” King whispered as he slid into the empty chair beside her.

Merritt—being Merritt—didn’t seem surprised by the voice. “Too exposed. But you know that already. Don’t you, Mi...” She

trailed off at the sight of the gun.

“We don’t want to cause a scene,” King said slowly.

She gave him a chastising look. “Of course not.”

The lights were down and the music was loud and the other occupants of the box appeared to be approximately one hundred and

twenty years old. No one had even glanced in their direction, and they were sheltered, there at the back of the box, but King

gestured with the gun anyway, wordlessly telling Merritt it was time to take this outside.

The promenade was empty, and they didn’t pass a soul as they headed toward the Grand Stairs. King stood in the shadows of

one of the massive pillars and studied Merritt, who looked out over the towering space with an appraising eye. “Impressive,

isn’t it?” She glanced up at the gilded walls and mosaic-covered ceiling that towered overhead. “But a little gaudy for my

taste.”

Any other day, Alex would have agreed, but at the moment, all she could do was look at the woman she used to idolize and ask, “What’s so important about that ring?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Stop lying.” King sounded more tired than angry—like a child who’s been given five different answers about how Santa fits

down the chimney and would someone just tell him the truth already . He was old enough to take it. But Alex wondered if it was true. She’d known Merritt for ten years—loved her for ten years—but

King had known her since the cradle. As far as she could tell, Merritt was the only kind of family he had left. This wasn’t

a mission. It was personal, and Alex could see the strain of it. She wanted him to be able to put it down.

“Come on, Merritt.” Alex scoffed. “I called you , and ten minutes later people were shooting at us in Vegas.”

“People have been shooting at you for longer than that. It’s hardly my fault.”

“What’s so important about that ring, and why do you need it?” Alex asked again. She never expected Merritt’s icy calm to

shatter.

“I don’t need it! I never needed it. I never even wanted it, and if you’d done as you were told in Amalfi, none of this would be happening.”

“ What wouldn’t be happening?” Alex did the talking because she had more patience than King at that moment—which was scary. But

Merritt’s laugh... that was terrifying.

“You two are such... children. You are children playing at being spies. You don’t know what it was like. You don’t know

what’s at stake. You don’t—”

“Then explain it to us!” Alex snapped. “This is your chance to explain. You owe us an explanation.”

The Grand Stairs of the Paris Opera House felt small all of a sudden, full of three people, one gun, and a universe of secrets

and lies. Somewhere, the music was building and swelling, but Alex could barely hear it over the pounding of her blood. Ten

years’ worth of instinct and experience were telling her they’d been there too long. They were too exposed. This was wrong

and bad and...

Merritt’s gaze flickered away—lightning quick—as a flash of something filled her eyes.

“It’s not too late to come in from the cold.

” Her voice was louder, calmer. She was the woman from the Farm again.

Gun or no gun, she was the one calling the shots.

“Turn yourselves into the Agency and stop running.” It was like someone had flipped a switch.

No. It was like someone was watching .

“King...” Alex started, but he was too deep—too focused. Too angry.

“You owe us the courtesy of the truth,” King snapped.

“Maybe.” Merritt straightened her spine. “But what I’m giving you is the courtesy of a head start.”

“King!” A voice echoed off the marble, and Alex turned to see Tyler standing down below, in the place where the wide staircase

split and branched before climbing to the second floor. He wasn’t more than thirty feet away, but it was like looking at him

across an ocean—across a decade.

“Hello, Tyler.” King was still mad about Berlin.

“Are you coming in?” The question sounded innocent enough, but Tyler’s hand was unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket. He was reaching

for his gun.

“Not today,” King called back, and Merritt sighed.

“Do yourselves a favor, my darlings.” Merritt’s gaze was granite as she whispered, “ Run. ”

And then all hell broke loose.

The music that had been growing and swelling in the distance turned into a crescendo, rising then cresting before turning

into a thundering roar of applause. Tyler spun, surprised by the sound, and King grabbed Alex’s hand and took off.

They weren’t running from Tyler or Merritt. They weren’t even fleeing the guards who seemed to appear out of nowhere, blocking

their way and sending them hurtling down another corridor.

No, it was like they were running from destiny, something set into motion decades ago in another country by other people.

A lifetime of secrets and lies that spilled over the years and across continents.

This was who they were. This was what they did.

And there was no one on earth Alex would rather do it with than the man who was currently holding her hand and running—

“Stop!” The opera house was a maze, and somehow, Tyler was up ahead of them. He stood there, breathing hard and face flushed,

like he was the one who was running for his life. Like he was the one who was almost out of options. “It doesn’t have to be

this way.”

“Oh yeah?” King shifted until Alex was behind him.

“Just come in, King. Alex.” Tyler shook his head in a silent plea that could only be translated as Don’t make me do this . “Just—”

The noise of the opera house changed then—a click click click that reverberated down the halls as the auditorium doors swung open and ushers locked them into place. In the next instant,

the applause died and the crowd swelled, pouring into the corridors, flooding the space with tuxedos and ball gowns and laughing,

talking people.

“Kingsley!” Tyler shouted, but the crowd was too loud.

The corridor was too full.

And Alex and King were already gone, floating out onto the dark streets of Paris with the tide.