The great thing about this chapter is that it brings us closer to my favorite chapter, 15. Which is super-long and, um… super M-rated, just for a heads up. :)
Title by Fall Out Boy, quote by Michelle Branch.
XIII. My Heart Is the Worst Kind of Weapon
I paced around the room.
If I had known then that these things happen,
would they have happened with you?
When Sydney woke up the next morning, she remained very still until she had determined the location of Sark's body in relation to her own. Only then did she risk turning slightly to look. He was behind her, with one warm arm draped around her waist, his face incredibly peaceful. He was still sleeping deeply.
She wanted to wake him up and have him again.
It was that desire, more than anything else, that propelled her from the bed. His arm tightened around her when she moved, and he made a soft noise in his throat, but once she managed to roll out of his grip he just frowned in his sleep—a gut-wrenchingly adorable expression—and rolled over onto his back. She put her panties and camisole back on, and after a brief second of uncertainty, she donned his robe again as well.
Once she was vertical, it came to Sydney's attention that she was also a bit hung over. There was an unpleasant taste in her mouth and a dull throbbing in her skull. For the former, she shuffled up the stairs and brushed her teeth; for the latter, she took another of the painkillers she'd borrowed a few days ago.
Now she just had to work on repairing her insidious mental dysfunction, and everything would be just fine and dandy.
She had . . . she had slept with Sark, to put it delicately, though vulgar terms seemed more appropriate for what had happened last night. And now, instead of reacting in a sane fashion and freaking the hell out, she was blushing over the memory and wandering the house to keep herself from going back to his bed and doing it all over again. In that vein, she started boiling water for tea, even though she didn't really feel like drinking any.
As she waited, the tile began to chill her feet and—better late than never—reality started sinking in. Namely, that she'd just shared the bed of a murderer, her current captor, while the man she loved continued to believe that Sydney Bristow had died two years ago.
Granted, she didn't care nearly as much as she should, but neither was she still inclined to hop back into that bed.
Much like the saying that all roads led to Rome, she started thinking about Vaughn again. What would he say if he could see her now, she wondered, but a surprisingly vocal part of Sydney rejected that thought. What right did he have to say anything? Could he look her in the eye after what he'd done, with that wedding ring on his hand, and have the nerve to criticize her actions?
She had always believed that they belonged together, had faith in her conviction that no matter what happened, no matter how many seemingly insurmountable obstacles they had to overcome, they would always find each other. But he had lost that faith, if he'd ever had it. He couldn't find her if he stopped looking, if he gave up and chose an end to his mourning rather than seeking the truth. She couldn't blame him, not really, in the rare moments when she could see the situation in a rational light. But his choice had ripped her apart, and she wasn't able to forgive so easily, fair or not.
What if he did still love her? What if he left Lauren when she returned, and wanted to be with her instead?
Sydney knew what her father would say. He doesn't deserve you.
She wanted to contradict this, to rail against it with all her strength—to deny that any part of her thought it might be the truth.
The boiling water was kind enough to interrupt her train of thought. She decided to make two cups of tea. She would bring one to Sark, and they would sit down and talk about this like adults. He would be able to make her see the practical and professional consequences of repeating their mistake, either with his calm, businesslike demeanor or just by being Sark and breathing. Soon, he would return her to the CIA, collect his end of the bargain, and be gone.
Not for the first time, she wondered exactly what his end of the bargain was going to be. Certainly not just money. What did the U.S. government have to offer that Sark might want to have? Despite his past affiliations, she knew he wasn't a follower of Rambaldi. Not an artifact, then, unless it was for someone else.
She managed to walk the length of the hall without spilling any tea from either cup. Just as she reached the doorway, she saw Sark stirring.
As Sydney watched, he groaned almost inaudibly and opened bleary blue eyes. He appeared disoriented for a moment; then his hand reached over to the side of the bed she had recently vacated. A small 'hmph' escaped him that could have meant anything. He rolled back to where he had been lying before, staring up at the ceiling, his arm still extended. And then, to her abject horror, Sark closed his eyes and his lips curved into a small, almost blissful smile.
She couldn't tiptoe back to the kitchen fast enough. Hot tea splashed liberally on both of her hands, and Sydney had to run cold water over the scalded skin as she tried to absorb this latest complication. This was . . . this was . . . extraordinarily counterproductive, was what it was.
Blissful Sark in his post-coital glow was not going to do a goddamn thing to make her see reason. In fact, it wouldn't be much of a challenge for him to have the exact opposite effect. And even though she couldn't remember any of her reasons for not going back to bed and giving him something else to smile about, she was sure that those reasons were very well thought out and compelling.
If there was one thing she hated about men, it was that the moment she let her guard down, they, combined with her predisposition to be emotional, were capable of turning her mature, rational, Ph.D-educated brain into a chaotic wreck of feelings and doubts. Meet a guy at a bar, and suddenly he's proposing to you in the most embarrassing way imaginable and you're trying to figure out how to tell him you don't actually work at any kind of bank. Try to defect to the CIA, and your handler is so kind and decent and understanding you stop caring about protocol. Get rescued from the streets of London by Julian Sark, and . . .
Well. Here she was.
Which wasn't to say, she mentally backpedaled, that this thing with Sark was comparable to her relationships with Danny and Vaughn. It was just a similar symptom of her deeper psychosis where men were concerned. There had to be some kind of defect in her ability to deal with the opposite sex.
Sydney sighed and dried her hands with a towel. "James Bond never had to deal with this shit," she muttered.
From the other end of the house came the sound of Sark's shower running. It occurred to her, belatedly, that it might be a good idea to put on actual clothing if she intended to put a kibosh on this sex thing before it got out of hand. She went back upstairs and picked out the least provocative of Julia's clothing—a pair of jeans and a brown sweater, from that mission in Ontario. The sweater was a little tight, but it would have to do.
She wondered if there was any way to return the robe without running the risk of a naked Sark and kissing and touching, and decided there was none. He could have it back later, when he was fully dressed and properly snarky.
That turned out to be sooner than she'd expected. When she came out onto the landing, he was standing at the bottom of the stairs, examining the remains of the chair with a carefully neutral air. As she approached, Sark looked up and raised his eyebrows in wordless inquiry.
"I was upset," she explained weakly, with an apologetic shrug.
He looked back at the wreckage and nodded as if this made perfect sense. "Is there anything else I should know about?"
"Well . . . I was having nightmares. That's why I was sleeping in the wrong bed; I'm sorry."
"I'm not." The way he stared right at her with those blue crystal eyes was— unsettling. She could feel her cheeks flushing, and hated it.
"Here's your robe," she said abruptly, shoving it into his hands. He was actually wearing a t-shirt today, and had she been so inclined, she could have traced every muscle in his abdomen through the thin, dark blue fabric. Jeans, too. It seemed unfair that his legs looked that good in denim. Then again, 'fair' was a concept best abandoned when dealing with Sark, if one intended to retain a modicum of sanity.
All right. This had to stop. She was sexualizing him in her mind because of what had happened last night, but that didn't have to be the case. Focus. Keep your guard up. Remember the Alamo. God, how was she supposed to keep a lid on it when she couldn't even take herself seriously?
"Do you still want those pancakes?" It came out more severely than she'd intended, but he seemed more amused than taken aback. Damn him.
"Certainly," he agreed.
Sark watched her go into the kitchen, admiring the formfitting sweater. Having seen the body it concealed in full last night, he knew there was no comparison, but being an opportunist means taking what you can get whenever it's available. He was still uncertain about how to broach the topic of what had happened with Sydney. He wasn't even entirely sure how to cope with it himself.
The next few days were critical, and anything that threatened to compromise his faculties could not be tolerated. His current sense of elation certainly fell into that category, as did the prospect of carrying on a torrid affair with Sydney Bristow. These negotiations would require a clear head.
One thing, at least, had been clarified. He'd sometimes wondered about what his own reaction would be, were he by some miracle lucky enough to act on the desires he'd harbored for several years. Would he be satisfied with a single encounter, ready to move on to other goals, or would that desire only increase in an exponential fashion? Now the question had been answered, decidedly in favor of the latter.
Unfortunately, that was the less convenient option. Any kind of continued arrangement would be highly problematic. Not only that, but there was no indication as yet that she might ever be inclined to allow the events of the previous night to repeat themselves, no matter what he might hope for.
Knowing Sydney, he had to admit the high probability that she deeply regretted last night and would do her best to incapacitate him if he brought it up.
But . . . there was always that irritating speck of doubt. What if she didn't regret it? And if that were the case—
"How many do you want?"
Sydney waited impatiently for him to answer. Instead of providing a prompt reply, he walked into the kitchen at a leisurely pace and proceeded to just stand there and look at her until she was feeling thoroughly uncomfortable. She resisted the urge to fidget. "I yield to your judgment in the matter," he finally told her, and of course he made the sentence sound suggestive. The bastard was going to make her life a living hell now, wasn't he.
Well, of course he is. What exactly did you expect? You practically assaulted him. You are never, ever going to hear the end of this.
Since there were four pancakes, her judgment concluded they should each get two. She'd rarely made pancakes before, and these didn't look quite as fluffy as the ones Francie used to make, but she was hoping the chocolate chips would make up for it.
Once again, she and Sark sat at the counter together with the fruits of her culinary labors. She put butter on hers while he started to eat his sans condiments.
"Hm. Much better," he said after swallowing the first mouthful.
Sydney, who was more of an equal-opportunity eater when it came to waffles vs. pancakes, had nothing to say.
"I've been meaning to ask," Sark went on, undeterred. "How are your memories coming along?"
"Fine. A lot better, actually."
"You said you were having nightmares."
Yet another topic she had absolutely no desire to discuss. "It was nothing," she lied, glancing over at Sark and then quickly averting her eyes again, keenly aware of him watching her. "It think it was just being alone. After what the Covenant did to me, I'm bound to have a few bad dreams."
"Did you have any last night?"
Oh, there was that blush, the one that had plagued her adolescence. "No," she replied curtly, and took a large bite of pancake.
"Interesting," was all he said. She wanted to elbow him in the throat. Instead, she remained silent and still, like a gazelle hoping to evade the notice of a prowling carnivore. The tactic seemed to garner the desired results; the rest of the meal concluded without a word passing between them.
She took both of the empty plates to the sink, but he followed her anyway. Which was fine, she told herself. Let him. If he thought he could use last night to somehow throw her off balance or play into his endgame, he was dead wrong. And if he forced her to give an explanation, she would tell him that she was just using him, the same way he was using her. It might sting his ego a little, but it wasn't as if his feelings would get hurt. It was just one stupid night.
"Sydney."
It was overrated, the idea of saying your lover's name in bed. She realized that now, as he spoke her name and all she could think about for a few blinding seconds was the way he'd said it last night, moaning it in her ear like an incantation, his voice becoming louder until he bit her shoulder to muffle his almost agonized cry, pressing his fingers not-quite-painfully into her skin.
The other benefit of the sweater was that it hid the bite mark very nicely.
"Yes?" she snapped, still bent over the dishwasher.
"Sydney, look at me."
She should have seen it coming, but she didn't. As soon as she face him, Sark kissed her. After overcoming the shock of his lips on hers and his hands on the sides of her face and his tongue tracing the corner of her mouth—and after a brief moment, which she would have fervently denied, where she let herself enjoy it—Sydney wrenched herself away, her hip colliding painfully with the counter. She tried to stop breathing so hard, and so unevenly.
Sark just watched her with his patented look of smug satisfaction. "You had some chocolate on your mouth," he informed her.
"Really," she said, skeptical and breathless. Despite all the harsh invectives that she should have launched at him, all she managed was a weak glare.
He smirked. "Maybe."
With that, he walked out of the kitchen, leaving her infuriatingly speechless. Without meaning to, she raised a hand to her lips. They were inappropriately tingly and were still protesting to her rational mind that they hadn't been done kissing Sark, thank you very much.
Sydney wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and told her libido to shut its lousy face.
On second thought, she withdrew her plate from the dishwasher and proceeded to make herself a third pancake. There was batter left over, despite the small amount she'd made, and she was still hungry. Besides, Sark wouldn't return so soon after his maddening grand exit. She would be able to cook and eat the pancake in peace. Only briefly did she wonder where he had gone, and why.
A couple minutes later she got her answer. As she buttered her pancake, Sark emerged from his room, talking on his cell phone, and just as quickly disappeared into the room across from the study that was constantly locked. She heard something that sounded like "if any of the other couriers have been comrsdr…", followed by a sound reminiscent of a large deadbolt being pulled into place. How enchantingly cryptic of him.
On the other hand, this did leave his room open for investigation. She'd disgraced her status as a CIA agent last night by . . . well, by fucking Sark. But also by completely failing to surveil his bedroom when given ample opportunity. Instead she'd just followed some inexplicable instinct and curled up in his bed, because—mortifyingly—when she slept on those sheets that had a ridiculously high thread count and smelled just like him, the nightmares didn't touch her.
Now could be her chance to redeem herself, at least for the second transgression. The fucking might require multiple complex acts of penance.
It would be so much simpler, she thought, if he weren't so damn good-looking. There were so many hideous, repulsive bad guys out there, and still she managed to be trapped with Sark, who, along with being a heartless killer, was one of the most beautiful men she'd ever seen.
She snatched up his robe from where he'd left it on the dining room table. If he caught her, she could use returning it as her excuse. Though, to be honest, an excuse would be pretty pointless. If he didn't expect her to be snooping around, he was seriously losing his edge. She still stepped quietly down the hallway, just in case. If nothing else, maybe she could steal the gun he'd left on the dresser and hide it away for later.
Unfortunately, but not entirely unexpectedly, the gun was nowhere to be seen. After checking behind the Rembrandt to satisfy her own curiosity—nothing but blank wall, as she'd suspected—Sydney moved swiftly and efficiently to the contents of Sark's desk. Most of the drawers were locked, and the ones that opened contained nothing but mundane office supplies. The wide, thin drawer above the leg space had a stack of bills for the safehouse, all of them at least three years old. She was about to shut the drawer and move on to the closet when something smaller, poking out from under the letter-size papers, caught her eye.
After a quick glance to the empty doorway, she caught the object between her fingernail and thumbnail and drew it out. It was a grainy black and white photograph, the sort of surveillance footage she'd seen countless times before. The only difference was the content. Her stomach twisted with disgust as she dropped it unceremoniously on the top of the desk. What kind of sick, pornographic crap was this?
Naturally, that was the moment Sydney recognized her own face.
It was shadowy, pixelated, but still distinguishable. Simon was a little harder to identify, blurred with movement, but you could tell it was him if you knew what to look for. Which she did, having been there. Krasnodar, seven months ago. That hotel with the little decorative green pillow on the bed.
She heard Sark's footsteps approaching, but she didn't budge. She just stared down at the picture and waited, taking deep slow breaths and trying to make sense of the numbness enveloping her mind. In her peripheral vision, she saw him enter the doorway.
She had no idea what kind of expression was on her face, but when she looked up at Sark, he stopped in his tracks.
"Sydney—"
"Nice picture," she interrupted. "Where'd you get it?"
He eyed her warily. Good. "A contact in the Ukraine."
"Huh." Her gaze flickered to the picture and back to him. "Never really had you pegged as a peeping tom, Mr. Sark." Sydney's flat tone filled the air like a toxin, dark and lethal.
The twitch at the corner of his eye was almost like a flinch. He said nothing, because there was no plausible way to respond.
"I guess this explains a lot, though, doesn't it? I assume this is how you confirmed that I was Julia Thorne. Not only that, but you—" Her voice caught in her throat, but she recovered quickly. "Was that your plan? Just keep me here and wait for me to throw myself at you?!"
Sark narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to one side. "Sydney, there is no need to overreact. The picture served only as a means of identification. Your sex life" –he said the phrase carefully, as if it might break in his mouth— "is none of my business."
"Damn right it isn't," she agreed with a vehemence that surprised even herself. "And it never will be."
The muscles in Sark's jaw clenched visibly. "Thank you for clarifying."
"You're welcome. Ugh, why the hell would you even have this?" Her lip curled with revulsion as she looked back down at the photo.
"You know the answer to that. I don't see why—"
"Because I don't want you to see it!" Sydney exploded. "I don't even want to see it! What, do you think I'm proud of this?"
She paused, letting silence fill the room before speaking again. Her voice was quieter, but no less fierce. "You probably figured it was just a matter of time, didn't you? What with me being such a loose woman. And after all, you're just so damn charming."
His mouth opened, as if he were about to reply, but then those crooked lips twitched and suddenly he was laughing. It was a husky, cheerful sound she'd never heard before, and actually quite pleasant, but it enraged her all the same. She remained firmly immune to Sark's endearingly delighted expression as he raised one hand to rub the back of his neck. "I'm sorry," he said, the sentiment contradicted by his wide grin. "I don't mean to laugh, I just— this entire situation strikes me as absolutely ridiculous."
He was not cute. He was not cute.
"You think this is funny? This is—"
Sark finally closed the gap between them and put his hands around her neck, his thumbs resting on either side of her chin. She automatically reached up and grabbed his wrists to keep him from applying pressure, because it should have been a threatening gesture, but that wasn't at all how it felt.
"Yes, Sydney," he told her, still fighting off that smile. "I do. What you've done in the last two years isn't my concern. You can do whatever you like with that picture. Tear it up. Burn it. Eat it. Send it to Mr. Vaughn as a postcard."
Okay, he was cute. Sydney couldn't entirely suppress her snort of laughter.
"I thought you might overreact if you saw the picture, which is why I wasn't entirely forthcoming about it." One of his thumbs was slowly stroking back and forth on her cheek. She wasn't sure he even realized he was doing it. "It had no impact on my high regard for you as an operative. Nor did I attribute the . . . events of last night to any sort of loose virtue on your part." The bastard's lips twitched again, the pressed together thoughtfully. "However . . ."
"What?" she demanded, immediately hostile.
He dropped his hands and turned to take the photograph from where it lay on the desk. "If you ever had any desire to attempt this position again, I must admit I'd be quite willing." His eyes, sparkling ice-blue and full of mischief, caught hers. "It looks very . . . enticing."
Sydney wondered if she could break his neck before embarrassment killed her. "In your dreams," she growled. Her face, she knew, was turning red.
He appeared to consider this before qualifying her statement. "Only the very good ones."
And somehow, instead of wanting to kick his legs out from under him, Sydney was nearly overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude. Whether or not Sark realized how deeply conflicted she felt about her past with Simon, he'd managed to effectively lift her spirits.
The truth was that she didn't want anyone to know about her and Simon. Their relationship, such as it was, had existed only in the fallout of her learning that Vaughn had moved on to another woman. And there she was, as Julia Thorne, and there was Simon, easygoing and good-natured, the kind of man that would have made her rebellious teenage self weak in the knees. It was simple, physical and almost entirely uncomplicated.
She didn't regret it, but all the same, she wasn't proud of it. Quite the opposite, in fact. And now, to find evidence of that affair in the most crude way imaginable, here in the house that had become both prison and sanctuary . . . well, Sark's unexpectedly infectious laughter couldn't have come at a better time.
Sark was still waiting for a response, expecting something along the lines of a slap in the face, when Sydney leaned in and kissed him swiftly on the cheek. He managed not to immediately touch the place her lips had brushed, as he generally tried to avoid acting like a giddy schoolboy. Still, he couldn't help but wonder when—if ever—he would cease to be utterly blindsided by these unexpected actions of hers.
"Thank you," she said. Her tone was sincere, but she offered no further explanation.
"You're welcome," he replied evenly. It seemed like the safest bet.
"I'm going to read in the study for a while." Sydney crumpled up the picture, dropped it in the wastebasket, and slipped out of the room. He offered no response, because it seemed to him that the wisest course of action would involve placing a certain amount of distance between them, both physical and mental. A clear head would be required for the negotiations this evening, and if there was one thing that Sydney did not promote in him of late, it was a clear head.
Deep down—actually, not that deep down at all—he knew that this entire situation was rapidly deteriorating into an unacceptable state of affairs. Bristow was skillfully worming her way past his defenses; whether intentionally or not was anyone's guess. As a woman for whom he'd carried a proverbial torch for several years, she was unusually well-equipped for the task.
Loose woman. Sark couldn't help smiling again. He couldn't quite imagine a woman he'd met who fit that description less than Sydney. Well, excluding those nuns whose acquaintance he'd made when he was impersonating a cleric, but even a few of them had been a little overfriendly. Sydney might wear the costumes—and wear them well—but in the end there was an inexplicable wholesomeness to her which had clearly not been inherited from either of her parents. Though, on the other hand . . . that picture of her certainly raised a fascinating counterpoint.
Sark sighed exasperatedly and ran a hand over his face. Remove your mind from the gutter, Julian, and do it now. Now that he had the room to himself, there was business to attend to. This was hardly the time to be entertaining such inappropriate thoughts.
He had set up an intricate network of his most reliable contacts and couriers for this operation, and thus far they had not disappointed. The initial delivery to the inter-agency Rotunda office in Los Angeles had been carried out promptly, with no unwelcome surprises. It was unfortunate that Malraux had been compromised, but the CIA's attempt to trace the delivery routes was something Sark had anticipated.
The network had also relayed the CIA's response: a phone number for him to use for the initial contact. It was possible that a high-ranking outsider had been pulled in, but he doubted it. In all likelihood, he would be speaking to Director Dixon. He did not, therefore, expect a very cordial conversation.
While he'd been away on the recent contract, his network had also provided him with something he'd been seeking since his escape from prison: video footage of Andrian Lazarey's murder. The unexpected development with Sydney had prevented him from watching it, but Sark resolved to allow no further delays. Once Bristow had been returned to the CIA, he intended to focus his considerable energies on locating his father's killer.
With that goal in mind, he locked both doors to his bedroom and took out a laptop from its locked desk drawer. After extracting the small disc from the pocket of the pants he'd been wearing the night before, he inserted it into the computer and waited for the video to load.
The poor-quality black and white feed of Lazarey's office reminded him uncomfortably of the surveillance he'd commissioned several years ago. The scene was completely uneventful for nearly a minute before Lazarey's head jerked up, as if someone had knocked on the door. It was almost impossible to read the clock on the wall, but when the varying quality of the video was at its best, it seemed to be about three o'clock.
His father went to the door, dropping out of the video, and then returned to visual range accompanied by a blond woman. There was no audio, but they appeared to be speaking. Lazarey turned away from the woman, toward his desk, as if to reach for something.
Sark watched the woman slip a blade into her hand from her sleeve. He refused to acknowledge the way his shoulders jerked forward slightly as she wrapped her fingers around the handle and raised the knife, slitting Lazarey's throat in one efficient movement. Then came the moment he'd been waiting for. Having wiped her knife clean on the lapel of Lazarey's suit jacket, she turned to face the camera.
He paused the video and leaned close to the screen, trying to distill every possible detail from the image. She was younger than he'd expected, and if not quite beautiful, then at least possessing physical attributes that might make a man consider her so. Her lips were pursed, and her blond hair was belied by heavy, dark eyebrows, drawn together in grim distaste. This, if Sydney's intel could be trusted, was the Covenant's operative.
This safehouse lacked the face-recognition technology necessary to make a positive ID, but he did have ways of gaining access to facilities that could give him the information he needed. After that, locating this woman should become a relatively simple task.
Until then, however, he had a much less simple task to attend to, involving a CIA agent who was proving to be entirely too intoxicating for her own good. He couldn't help wondering—once again—if Sydney was actually capable of having a detrimental effect on his sanity.
Without visible hesitation, Sark unlocked the door and walked down the hall toward the study.