He put a glob of antiseptic on the biggest of the gashes and Zoe jerked when she felt the sting, but he kept her ankle in his hand, not letting her go anywhere.
“I don’t know.” His voice was hard, but his hands were gentle as he held her aching foot and, oh so softly, blew against the place where she was hurt. Which might have made her squirm for different reasons, but she couldn’t get distracted. She had to know.
“Why would Alex—”
“Because she went bad, okay? Because she got greedy? Because that drive is worth a small fortune to the right buyer and Alex has expensive taste? Because eventually . . .” He’d thrown the last of the wood on the fire and the flames were growing hotter, brighter, but somehow the room was a whole lot colder than it had been moments before.
“Because, eventually, this life breaks you. And you wake up one day and realize all you have to show for it is a body full of scars and a head full of ghosts and you start looking for a way out. Maybe . . . maybe it’s not a drive to Alex. Maybe it’s a parachute.”
Zoe didn’t know what scared her more: that Sawyer was talking about her sister or that, on some level, he was talking about himself. So she just said, “You’re wrong. I know my sister.” He huffed out a laugh that was more like a breath, soundless and borderline cruel. “I do! Alex and I are twins. Identical twins. We’ll be connected for the rest of our lives. We’re—”
“You’re not her!” He probably hadn’t meant to yell because, when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “You have the same DNA, but you’re not her. You walk into a room and everybody smiles. You hum and the world wants to sing. Yesterday I literally heard you use the term oopsie daisy. You’re good, Zoe. You’re good. People like Alex . . . People like me . . .” He looked away. “We can only do this job because we’re a little bit bad.”
She didn’t know what to say. You’re good too would have gotten her laughed at. You’re good to me would have made her sound desperate and lonely and all the things she didn’t want to be （but probably was anyway）。 Because at some point Sawyer had stopped being Mr. Spy Guy and started feeling like Her Guy, and that was just another lie. Just another cover. They weren’t really the Michaelsons, and they never, ever would be. Which was when she realized that she trusted Sawyer with her life. But she wasn’t strong enough to trust him with her heart.
So she cocked her head. She tried to tease. “Don’t you know? Sometimes villains make the best heroes.”
The smirk he gave her was warm and sweet and wrapped around her like a blanket. “Then, lady, I’m the hero of your dreams.”
She didn’t say what she was thinking: That’s what I’m afraid of.
“Come on. We need to get out of here before Kozlov sends someone to finish the job.” He stood and she started putting on her shoes. “Can you walk? I can go get a car.”
“I can walk.” Her feet didn’t hurt that much as she put pressure on them and slipped her arms into Mr. Michaelson’s coat and her hands into Mr. Michaelson’s pockets and—
“Wait,” Sawyer called. “I’ll take that coat and you can . . .”
But he trailed off as her fingers brushed against something and she pulled out a piece of plastic. It took her a moment to register what it was because that black card with the little golden C didn’t belong in such a dusty, ancient room.
“What’s . . .” And then she remembered. She laughed. “Oh. Well, we probably don’t need the key to my Paris hotel room.”
She started to toss it on the fire, but Sawyer was already lunging for her, shouting, “No!” There was panic in his voice she hadn’t heard before—like he’d rather lose every gun and knife and safe house he owned than part with that thin piece of plastic.
“What is it?” She stared at the face she no longer recognized because, in that moment, he was a stranger—a trained operative trying to pick the perfect lie. “Sawyer . . . Why do you have the key to a room we can never use?” But Sawyer just kept staring at the card—at her—as if he wasn’t sure which one was really worth saving. Which was how Zoe knew—“It’s not a hotel key, is it?”
She studied the card. Solid black with that little golden C. No chip or strip on the back, so it probably wasn’t a credit card. But it mattered. One look at him was enough to tell her that it mattered a lot.
“What kind of card is it, Sawyer?” She dangled it over the fire, and he cocked his head like we both know you won’t drop it—which she wouldn’t have, but she didn’t pull it back either. “What—”