Chapter 6: Newlyweds
(Sydney)
It was our eleventh target: a wealthy Italian man and high ranking Covenant official who spent his weekends in Rome with his mistress. We checked in as newlyweds on our honeymoon. The presidential suite. Chosen not for its marble floors and luxurious jacuzzi but because it is right net door to Alberti Ferucci's equally opulent rooms. We lounged on the beach, gazed into each other's eyes over and dinner and wine. And grappa. Every time he smiled at me I wanted to gag.
Sark wrapped an arm around my waist as we sauntered back to the room. His hand was like fire on the skin of my back, his fingers gentle. I wished the silk dress had more of a back. I wished the alcohol hadn't made me a little too warm and way too forgiving.
Ever the gentleman, he opened the heavy wood door and waved me in ahead of him. He disappeared into the bedroom and came back a few moments later carrying a black box, long and thin.
"This is for you."
I opened it. Inside was a length of black silk.
Sark approached like a stalking tiger. Suddenly my heart was racing. He pushed back my hair from my neck and ran a finger along my chin. I shivered from the heat.
"Ferucci has cameras installed all over the room."
His breath on my skin made me nervous, and oddly excited.
"To maintain our cover as newlyweds…." His hand dipped down to my collarbone. "…we'll need to put on a bit of a show for him."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to kill him for his convenient omission. But I did nothing. He moved behind me again and tied the silk over my eyes. Blind.
"So you can pretend I'm someone else, anyone else, just don't cry out the wrong name."
I was angry and scared but not unwilling. And the blindfold—a twisted act of kindness from my greatest enemy and most valued ally—the blindfold set me free.
(Sark)
She trembled at my touch. When I moved behind her to tie on the blindfold I thought for a moment she would simply bolt. But she stayed. I fastened the silk over her eyes and tied it securely behind her head.
"So you can pretend I'm someone else—" Some dead lover from your lurid past. "Anyone else—just don't cry out the wrong name."
"I hate you, Steven."
Her voice was flat. I detected no malice even as she spoke my alias. But her breath had quickened. When I slipped the silk straps over her shoulders and kissed a trail down her torso she moaned and ran her fingers through my hair.
(Sydney)
I hate you. I hate that you can do this to me. I love how you make me feel. I love you. And everything is a thick stew bubbling inside me. Your touch is like honey; your voice is like wine.
When did I stop hating you?
When did you start protecting me?
I don't know. Those feelings are an ocean that blends seamlessly into the sky, or melting ice, as blue as your eyes.
Suddenly your little ruse doesn't matter. The circumstances, the show. It is just you and me and touch and tase.
I pulled him up and sought out his lips, worked desperately at the ivory buttons of his linen shirt. And then it was smooth skin and soft sighs. A cool breeze through the curtains. His hands all over me, searching, asking, giving.
(Sark)
I am in love with her strength and her weakness. Her hard angles and soft curves. I am in love with a contradiction, and just as blind as she is.
Under that dress her skin is smoother thank the finest silk. I kiss down her throat, down between her breasts, and when I reach her stomach she moans. Softly, but distinctly. It is the sexiest thing I've ever heard.
This was not supposed to happen.
Her fingers tangle in my hair.
With that simple touch I am done. After that it is all pleasure and self-reproach. Skin and muscle. Whimpers and moans and gasps. Her small hands on my waist, my arms, and her nails as she clutches my back, pulls me further into her.
Finally sated, she stretches out alongside me, head resting on my arm. I wonder who she imagined me to be. Danny? Vaughn? But she takes off the blindfold and looks at me, really looks at me. And I wonder if just maybe she imagined I was myself.
(Sydney)
I search his eyes, but don't find any answers. I settle in against his chest, willing him to break the silence. He molds his body to mine, but doesn't say a word. Three hours til go time.
(Sark)
I shot Ferucci. I acquired the disc with his contacts' information. But when I run towards the exit she closed the door and aimed the gun at my forehead.
"Sit down. Let's have a chat."
I obey. Because I have never heard her voice sound so cold.
"What are you doing?"
"Put your hands on the desk where I can see them."
"The guards will come soon."
Her aim doesn't waver, even as she crosses the room and sits beside me. It doesn't waver until she cocks the gun and presses it against my left temple. I don't know what she's doing and it scares me. Sydney has always been emotionally flammable, but predictable.
"You will never hide another detail of a mission from me, understood?"
Her words are slow and measured. Before I can respond she hits me hard across my face with the metal gun. I feel my skin split open slightly over my cheek bone. Tomorrow it will be bruised and swollen. But I don't bring a hand up to probe the wound. I don't make a sound. And I don't wince when she cocks the gun and pushes the barrel against my temple. She stares at me and I stare back.
A minute later she offers me her hand and pulls me a few steps towards the exit.