Fight or flight kicks in instantly, and I scramble to my feet. My only thought is to get out of the attic without ever losing possession of the box tucked under my arm, and fighting this very armed man, from the floor, without a weapon myself was too much of a disadvantage. Barely standing, I turn my back to the man and sprint for the steps leading to the roof.

Adrenaline and fear twists my perception of time, and it seems like hours later when my hand finally slaps the dusty, wooden surface of the door. I'm almost suprised that it took so long before the sound of a gunshot rang out, and a searing pain tore through my right shoulder blade, knocking me offbalance as I tumbled down the steps and away from salvation.

Bracing myself with my hands, I try to push myself back to a standing position, but my right shoulder protests by shooting pain that can't be ignored through my arm and across my back. Wincing and using the steps for support, I finally manage to get to my feet, but another shot rings out before I can turn to face my attacker, and I'm sure that this is it. This is the point where he hits his target perfectly- a well placed bullet to the back of my head and then nothing. Would Sark feel guilty for predicting this, that my ego would be the death of me?

Something falls heavily behind me, and I spin around to see my attacker lying in the doorway; Sark standing behind him on the staircase, gun in hand.

"Let's go!"

Nodding, I reach for what I dropped when I crashed to the bottom of the staircase. It's excruciatingly painful to even move my arm and lift the intricately carved box, and Sark raises an eyebrow when I wince. Aside from the gunshot, I can also feel several bruises, minor by comparison, forming on my arms and legs from the fall.

"My God..." he murmers in shock (an expression that suprises me from someone who has put bullets in so many people) and hurries to my side, "You've been shot!"

I nod- still dazed by the pain- and hold the box out to him, a pathetic attempt at repayment for saving my life, "I found it..."

Without a word he helps me to my feet and wraps an arm around my waist, leading me down the stairs and back to the car parked in an alley down the street.

"You should have that checked out," he tells me when we get back to the car. We're driving again, though I have no idea as to where our destination might be. All I'm sure of is that this isn't the way we came.

"If you mean a doctor, no," I shake my head, and instantly regret it for the pain that follows, "I don't want to draw any more attention to us. Sloane will already be suspicious when that agent never returns..."

He nods, as close to admitting I'm right as he can allow himself to be, and continues to drive.

Sometime later he pulls up to a quaint, but lovely hotel and helps me out of the car. He takes off his jacket and places it gingerly over my shoulders to hide the blood seeping from the wound and leads me inside with an arm around my waist.

Our room is on the second floor, and I can't help but smile when Sark opens the door and leads me inside. Moonlight pours in through a bay window illuminating a large bed with beautiful white sheets and pillows trimmed in gold. A small couch in the corner is apholstered with the same gold on white fabric and all the woodwork of the room from the carved legs of the couch, to the headboard of the bed, to the end tables are rich mahogany.

"Sydney?" his voice crashes me back to reality. Sark is removing his coat from my shoulders. The blood and the pain of the gunshot is still very real.

"I'm sorry..." I murmer, knowing he said something else but not hearing a word of it.

He tilts his head towards the bathroom door, "The bathroom is over here. We should get your shoulder cleaned up." I've no arguements with that and allow him to lead me to the bathroom which is every bit as beautiful as the rest of the room, and adorned in similar colors.

"Your shirt, Miss Bristow," he says without looking at me after a minute of standing in awkward silence. Funny, I was 'Sydney' in the other room...

Removing my fitted black sweater requires an almost ridiculous amount of effort when moving my shoulder is so painful, and the thought to ask for help races through my mind before quickly being stomped out. Ignoring the pain, I pull the turtleneck over my head in one movement and gauge Sark's reaction in the mirror as I let it fall in a heap on the floor and am left wearing a revealing black bra. His lip twitches almost inperceptively, but his eyes remain focused on the blood pouring down my back.

My breathing hitches when he places one hand gently on my arm, dabbing at the wound with a damp towel with the other. Steadying my breathing, I examine his reflection in the mirror. His blue eyes are focused on my shoulder as he carefully applies an antibiotic that stings more than I'd ever admit.

He seems almost vulnerable at moments like these, though the word would more accurately describe me; standing in a room with my enemy, without even the thin layer of my sweater between us. It's hard to clearly call him my enemy now though. Since our conversation in the car things have gotten complicated, and now he's gingerly dressing my wounds. He saved my life. It's all too much to process, and I gasp when he looks up at the mirror and catches me watching him.

"You're lucky. It was only a graze wound..." he explains distantly, mostly for the sake of filling the silence. His breath is warm on my skin, but I shiver anyways and entertain the though of leaning back into his arms and the warmth of his body, but I turn to face him instead.

"Thank you..." the words weren't meant to sound as breathless as they did, and neither did what happened next, but before I knew it I was leaning into him, his hands resting on the small of my back, and his lips crashed into mine. I tangled my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to me and deepening the kiss. Then, all of a sudden, a sob escaped against his mouth and he pulled away, and I saw his icy blue eyes filled with confusion.. desire.. hurt.

"Sydney-" I silence him by pressing a finger to his lips before turning and fleeing the too small bathroom. For the first time the events of the past few days hit me full force and I can't fight the tears. I throw myself down on the small couch, and he cautiously sits down beside me putting an arm around my shoulder and letting my cry against his chest until my eyes burn and my throat is parched, frantically trying to explain all the things rushing through my head that in no way make sense as I speak them.

There's nothing for him to say, so he simply listens, never saying a word.