At breakfast, she's a little distracted.
'Is everything okay?' he asks gently, resting his hand over hers. She flinches, to his surprise, then smiles weakly.
'I'm fine. Sorry. I'm just a little—'
'Nervous?'
She nods, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 'We leave tomorrow morning, don't we?'
'Yes, if all goes to plan. We'll fly by private jet.' He proceeds to describe their flight path to Latvia. Her features relax. She's heard it all before but detail is soothing, to people like them.
--
She kisses him goodbye and watches him leave for his final, Derevko-directed mission.
Shutting the door, she closes her eyes and shudders.
Allie.
Alicia?
Alice?
Allison—
No.
She won't think that. 'Allie' could mean a thousand things—his mother, maybe?—none of which have to do with the woman who was exactly like Francie—
Except for her soul.
Trudging wearily to the beach, she gets the feeling that she's lying to herself.
Again.
--
'Yes, everything's going smoothly. Yes—thank you.'
He shuts the phone and gives a small sigh of relief . Compliments from Irina are hard to come by, this one being no exception.
Knowing better than to be lulled into complacency, he focuses his energies on completing this last mission.
Because tomorrow, he's leaving everything behind.
He owes Irina that much, at least.
--
The rhythmic breaking of the surf does nothing for her increasingly frazzled state of mind.
Instead of sitting calmly on the beach, she paces—incessantly. None of the scenarios she imagines seem particularly appealing. If she brushes off his sleep-talking episode, she'll always wonder who exactly 'Allie' is. Asking him directly might put him on the defensive. Lies come too easily to them. She can't bear another.
What if…
Sitting heavily on the soft sand, she stares out across the ocean.
What if 'Allie'really is Allison Doren? What then? Trained assassins of Sark's calibre don't talk in their sleep, she thinks darkly—unless there's a very good reason to. He was exhausted and recovering from a bullet wound…maybe that lowered his defences.
But what was he hiding, to begin with?
Stop. Thinking.
A small, frustrated moan passes her lips. This can't end happily. She knows it. Following that line of thought would inevitably lead her to the circumstances that brought her here in the first place and she doesn't want to think about that because—
—nothing makes any sense.
But, like everything else that happened, she's dragged into it. Quicksand.
Sark offered to help her avenge the deaths of Vaughn and her father—without naming a price.
And now they're lovers.
Wonderful coincidence.
Except in their world, there's no such thing as serendipity.
She takes a deep breath, but it doesn't slow her frantic pulse. The thought of him planning all this, deliberately taking steps to win her trust—
—brings her to the next painful question.
Why?
Why go through so much trouble? What does he want out of this? She desperately hopes that his need for companionship was his only motive, but she knows that can't possibly be true. He's gorgeous, and any woman would want him.
What's so special about her?
Bedding the boss's daughter? Is that it? She laughs sadly. Doubt it. Irina's relationship with her only complicates things.
Sleeping with the enemy? For thrills? Maybe. But the adrenaline rush has worn off, and he's still with her. To put it lightly. Think: Latvia. Kissing his old life goodbye.
And how does Allison Doren fit in all this?
The way he whispered her name…
Allie.
A whisper. Tinged with so much regret.
And something else.
Only lovers speak each other's names with such reverence.
No.
It can't be—
No. Nonono—
Blinded, she stumbles towards his pharmacy.
--
'What is Derevko's current location? Yes. Very well.'
Perfect.
As expected, an important meeting in Venezuela should keep her busy. Oil barons and the like tend to be…difficult.
But Irina is persuasive.
--
Senseless—
She tells herself this as she shakily punches in the access codes and slips into the vast white room. Her hunch couldn't possibly be true. Sark and Allison couldn't have been lovers.
I killed her.
Which leads her to the logical conclusion—Sark wants revenge.
Suddenly, she doubts the events surrounding the deaths of her father and Vaughn.
Sickened, she turns to the row she once flinched at. Her trembling fingers hover over the syringes, tranquilisers, and sodium pentothal.
Only one way to find out.
--
He coughs over the sink, blood trickling down his chin.
No bullet wounds, this time.
No survivors, either.
Irina will be pleased.
--
She packs her belongings and glances at her watch. Anxiety makes her restless and fidgety, and her fingernails are bearing the brunt of her nerves.
He should be home in a few hours. She has until then to decide what to do.
Option number one: Forget anything happened. Go with him in the morning as planned, and take it from there. Live the lie—assuming there is one.
Option number two: Use the truth serum and get the facts out of him. If it turns out to be nothing, she'll have to apologise for her brusque methods, but she's sure all will be forgiven.
If the worst comes to pass—
She knows the way to the airport from the mansion. The keys to his motorcycle are in her backpack, and her passport and ticket to Indonesia are ready.
I can't—I can't leave him.
She trembles a little but forces her anguish back. This is not the time for weakness.
Focus.
Seduce her unsuspecting lover, and uncover the truth.
She's reminded of another woman who used her charms to extract information.
I'm not my mother.
She's not so sure anymore.
--
He rushes home.
Thisclose to freedom. Or at least, a semblance of it. Never mind the bitter truths that will remain unsaid, he can live with that. Her continual presence in his life is what matters. Latvia, first, then Vanuatu—they'll get used to the travelling. Whatever it takes.
They will never attain normality. He doesn't want it. Doesn't need it. Waking up beside her is his only desire.
That, and not bumping into Irina.
The lies will accumulate, a leaden weight on his tainted soul. He can think of ways to lighten the load. Sydney will never know the truth.
He pauses outside the heavy oak door.
One day—they might even be happy.
A violent twist of the doorknob, mirrored by the pain in his heart, and he steps inside.
She smiles with heart-stopping sweetness.
One day.
--
She wonders how she will pull this off.
He steps out of the shower, smiling boyishly at her, all damp blond curls and guileless eyes—and she's a heartbeat away from weeping. Her very own Adonis.
Watch her make him bleed.
'Put some clothes on,' she smiles, barely hiding the cracks in her voice.
'Why?' He looks genuinely puzzled.
'So I can take them off.'
He laughs, shakes his head, and indulges her.
She gestures to the beautiful candle-lit dinner before them. Courtesy of a butler with an eye for detail, and her wicked, scheming mind. She pours the wine, but he doesn't know that his glass is laced with drugs. Tranquilizers. Mild enough to escape his notice, but strong enough to take effect—
Once they're done making love.
The usual.
He sits down, takes a sip, and smiles appreciatively. Correctly labels the year, even. She chuckles, and her heart breaks a little more.
They talk softly over the tinkle of silverware. The steak is delicious. The wine, even more. He's almost emptied his glass.
Nearly normal. Most lovers don't have a syringe loaded with truth serum in the top drawer—
She won't think about that right now.
'…really, so we'll have plenty of time to get to the private jet.'
Blinking a little, she focuses. Right. Their eventual flight out of insanity, into normality. Their version, of course.
Except that would involve getting through tonight.
Mission objective: Do not fall apart.
'Sydney?'
Narrowed eyes, but not from suspicion. Concern. She's leaking emotion again. Stupid. She puts down the knife and fork, gets to her feet, seizes him by the collar and proceeds to kiss him—frantically. That way, she can't cry.
He chuckles into her mouth and returns the favour, and she can tell the drugs are already working. He's usually a lot more restrained, this early. Slow and luxurious, that's how he makes love. Not tonight. Look at where his hands are.
'You're so beautiful,' he murmurs reverently, setting her down on the bed, and she discovers she can cry, after all. She chokes back a sob because he's still so tender, even in his drug-induced haze.
He mumbles something about how lovely her dress is—then slips it off her, tossing it carelessly on the floor. Banter helps grief too, so she says—and does—the same with his clothes.
His skilful touch burns her flesh, and she deliberately stops thinking.
—she cries out first, then he joins her, hurtling into oblivion.
Sweet, sweet, nothingness. His scent, warmth, the feel of his arms—
For now, she can pretend that tomorrow, they're starting a new life. Where Sark loves Sydney, and Sydney loves Sark.
He whispers her name, and she's back on earth again.
Too drugged to notice, too tired to care, too blissful to suspect—he's easy, easy prey. The needle slips into his arm and she's done the deed. He jerks sluggishly in response, and his eyes widen. Shock. Betrayal is next, she's sure. Who tricked whom?
She's still entwined with him, still feels his warmth, and uses that, and her weight, to her advantage. Straddling him has never been so strategically important, and it makes her sick.
Her hands on his chest now, and she leans down, forcing herself to remain calm.
'Who is Allie?'
He tries to struggle but can't, and that is torture in itself, because what elite assassin can bear losing control over his finely-tuned body?
'Allison—Doren.'
She can tell from his eyes that he's fighting a losing battle.
'Was she your lover?'
She's crying now, she can't stand it anymore. Was it real, for Allie and him?
The longest pause, and she can't bear to ask him again—
'Y-Yes.'
His voice breaks like shattered china, and so does her heart.
One last question.
'Did you kill my father and Vaughn?'
'Sydney—'
Desperate, helpless, pleading—
'Did you kill my father and Vaughn?'
Anguish and agony flood his eyes. He closes them.
'Yes.'
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
She knows she should get the hell out of there, she's just made love to a man she ought to have killed—but she sinks her face into his neck and weeps. He's whispering something, his voice positively straining with desperation, but she's had enough untruths for today.
'You win, Sark.'
She kisses him one last time, and decides against telling him that she loves him. It wouldn't make a difference, anyway. He whimpers her name.
Another needle into his arm, and he's out. Completely. For the next few hours. It should buy her enough time.
She disentangles herself, and knows she'll never feel whole again.
Gently, very gently, she draws the covers over him. Smoothes his unruly locks. So beautiful. She kisses his forehead.
And so, it ends.
She showers, desperate to rid her skin of his scent. She doesn't need another reminder of the sweetest, most painful mistake of her life. Her waking up alone from then on is penance enough.
She guns the engine, blinded by tears.
Maybe if she's lucky, she'll end up wrapped around some lamppost.
--
Like all calamities—it only keeps getting worse.
When he finally regains consciousness, he staggers out of bed, frantically pulls his pants on, stumbles out of the room, down the stairs—SydneySydneySydneyohGodno—
Only to see Irina Derevko, eyes blazing, striding through the front door.
'You have been—' she hisses, grasping him by the chin, '—a very bad boy.'
--