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“What’s he doing here?” Alistair whispered.
I didn’t answer. My brain wasn’t working.
“How did he even find you?!” Alistair demanded.
“THAT’S what you’re worried about?!”
“You can’t go out there,” he said, stating it like it was an order.
I stared at him like he was absolutely insane. “It’s my HOUSE.”
“You can’t,” Alistair insisted, though he sounded more petulant this time.
Suddenly, I grew angry. “You said you couldn’t FIND him!”
“I – I couldn’t!” he whined.
I started for the door –
“What the fuck are you doing?!” he hissed.
“He’s been gone three and a half years! I want to know what the hell happened!”
Alistair’s eyes widened in terror. “You can’t tell him I’m here!”
The more he talked, the more astounded I became. “Why not?!”
The doorbell rang again.
Alistair jumped like it was a gunshot.
“The man is an assassin for the Chinese!” he hissed. “If he finds out we’re engaged, there’s no telling what he could do!”
A feeling I hated, but which nonetheless lurked beneath the surface of our relationship, reared its ugly head:
Contempt.
Contempt for Alistair. For his fear. For his weakness.
He had immense power within MI6, yes…
He was one of the most feared men in London, true…
But he had never spent any time in the field.
He had never stared down the barrel of a gun.
He gave his orders from behind a desk. He never had to put his own safety on the line…
And I secretly despised him for it.
I tried not to feel that way.
I hated it when I did, although it happened only occasionally.
I told myself I was being a bitch.
After all, most people don’t have to kill terrorists for a living. It’s unfair to him to hold him to that standard.
