I walk over to him, touch his bare arm lightly, brush my fingertips over the curvature of his bicep muscle. “Well, maybe you’re right”—I press my lips to his shoulder; his skin is warm against my mouth—“maybe when I look at you I see something more…complex, more advanced.” Walking around him slowly, my lips leave a trail of kisses across his back, his sides, and then his chest when I make a full circle.
I stop and look at him gazing down into my eyes. What is that in his gaze? Lust? Indecision? Struggle? For the first time in a long time I can’t tell the difference.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Izabel.”
The words, although vague, are cryptic enough to stop my heart. No one ever starts a sentence like that unless the rest of it is going to suck.
I take a step back and away from him immediately.
“What is it, Victor?” I’m afraid of the answer.
He sighs and his gaze drops to the floor; a hand comes up and his fingers cut a nervous path through his short hair.
He looks right at me.
My heart stops again.
“There was more to the mission in Italy than what you were lead to believe.”
I blink twice, and then just stare at him for a drawn-out moment.
“OK,” I finally say. “Then what? Tell me.”
Victor pulls out a chair from underneath the table and he takes a seat. I remain standing. I feel like I should probably sit down for this too. But screw that.
“I want you to sit down,” he says kindly.
“No, I’m fine right here,” I respond with a little less kindness—I cross my arms.
He sighs, and then slouches in the chair somewhat, letting his long legs fall apart before him; his left arm rests on the tabletop.
There’s a long pause, and although only a few seconds, I feel like I’m going to die with impatience.
“Victor—”
“There are things about me,” he begins, “that you will never understand, or be able to accept, things that I cannot change.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
That stings. But I say nothing.
And where the hell is this stuff coming from? I’m getting whiplash trying to figure out how we went from almost-sex to you’re-gonna-need-to-sit-down-for-this.
“When I met you,” he goes on, not looking at me, “or I should say after I fell in love with you, I thought maybe I could change.” Now he looks right at me, hooking my gaze and holding it. “That part of me that loves you wanted to…adjust”—he motions a hand casually—“certain things about my personality, to better suit you as your…lover.”
“My lover? You’re not a robot, Victor,” I snap, “so please speak normal, everyday English.”
“I love you,” he says, “but I can never change who I am for you.” (That didn’t sting—it gutted me.) “And I was a fool to ever consider it. Changing is impossible. I knew that all along. I tried to find ways around it, but in doing so I got myself in tight situations.”
My mouth pinches bitterly on one side; my arms stay crossed. I want to argue, but he doesn’t give me a chance.
“If I was myself, Kessler never would have made it out of that auditorium alive the night we apprehended her. But because of my feelings for you, I played her game to save the life of your mother. I changed who I am, how I work—for you. And as long as you’re alive, as long as I’m in love with you—as long as you are mine—I’ll struggle with who I’ve become, and who I am. And the consequences will be that I get myself, and you, and everyone else, into tight situations. Because I am not used to caring for someone, Izabel. I am not used to…caring at all.”
“So what are you saying?” I ask, bitterly. “Is this your way of leaving me? Is that why you brought me here: show me a good time, give me the last part of who you tried to be, and then send me on my way?”
Wait. Or could it be…? No…that can’t be what’s happening—did he bring me here to kill me?
I take two more steps backward, my legs becoming unsteady underneath my trembling weight.
Victor stands, and my eyes dart to see his gun still laying on the table beside him. In his reach. My heart is pounding against my ribcage. I’m losing my breath.
“No,” he says calmly, regretfully, and walks away from the gun, moving toward me. “I brought you here to tell you the truth. About Italy. About Nora. About everything.”
About Nora? Why does it feel like my stomach is in my throat all of a sudden? What the hell does Nora have to do with this?
“Then tell me, Victor. Tell me and get it over with.”
He stops abruptly, just feet from me, and cocks his head curiously to one side. He looks stunned, maybe even a little wounded, and I can’t quite place why. I think he’s going to say something—maybe he’s hurt by how afraid I am of him suddenly. No, it’s something else…something entirely—
“Victor?”
His eyes appear heavier, unfocused; his legs seem to struggle holding up his weight; he’s like a tree moved by a steady wind.
“Victor, you’re scaring me.” I move toward him. “Victor?” He collapses, and instinctively my arms shoot out to catch him, but the heavy weight of his body falls against mine; we crash onto the carpeted floor together.
“Victor! Victor wake up!” I crawl from underneath his hip and sit on my knees beside his seemingly lifeless body. “Victor!” I shriek. My hands probe his face; his eyes are wide open, but empty—thank God I feel breath emitting from his mouth and nostrils.