Page 79 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold
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 shedidhave 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.”
