"My physical state didn't seem to be an issue the other night," I quipped just to see if it set him off, then added a low whisper, "You didn't mind being a little rough when you were inside me."
I heard the change in the quality of his breath.
"Kimmy—"
"I'm fine," I rushed to speak up before he misunderstood the intention behind my words. “I liked it.”
Pause. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
My throat closed up. I wanted to ask him more questions, about what we would do after all this was over. I wanted to demand to know if he was in danger, or if he missed me at all, even a little.
Instead, I said, "Okay."
Then there was silence, and I was convinced he was about to end the call.
His voice changed, turning soft. "Just wait a little bit longer, Ponytail. Okay? It's not quite safe yet. Target's hired guns are still following me, and Idon't want to put you in danger anymore. I just can't. I will kill if someone lays a finger on you again."
My whole body went hot. "Okay."
"I'll see you soon," he whispered and hung up.
I held the burner to my ear for a full minute after, listening to the silence.
When I finally set it down, my hands weren't shaking anymore.
51 seven
I walked the corridor with my fists balled at my sides.
Every time my boots hit the concrete, the echo came back louder, sharper, until it was impossible to ignore. The compound had a way of doing that—amplifying whatever you tried to keep inside your head, forcing it into the open.
The floor had been waxed recently, and it reflected my own silhouette as I moved through the maze.
My mind had been a chaotic storm these past few days. It wasn't just the night I'd spent with her or the earth-shattering revelation of my identity or the demands of the current job that I needed to wrap up. It was everything crashing down at once, a tidal wave of emotions that had been surging inside my chest ever since I'd been given the assignment.
At first, I was terrified of those feelings. They twisted the way I thought, and they clung to me like an unshakable shadow. But now, I realized that they were meant to remain. They'd already carved themselves into the very fabric of my being. I didn't know when exactly—maybe the moment I saw her in the photo Father showed me, or maybe that night at the gala when Wick cornered her. Or maybe it was a process, a combination of little things building upon each other as I watched her and talked to her.
I didn't know and I didn't care.
She'd burrowed into my heart slowly but surely, and I didn't want her to just be gone from my life.
I found myself standing in front of Father's office, and pushed the door open.
Inside, nothing ever changed.
No windows. The table in the center of the room. Two chairs on opposite sides, like the world's most antagonistic tea party. A single lamp.
Father was already there, hulking in the far chair with his hands folded in his lap. The light left his face in shadow as always.
"Operative Seven," he said by way of greeting and gestured at the empty chair.
I didn't bother sitting.
The room was cold, and today I liked it that way—it kept the blood sharp.
"What is it this time?" Father asked. "You wanted to see me again?"
I looked past him at the dead zone where wall met floor. "You know why I'm here."
