40 Kimmy
The headache hit me first.
I took inventory of myself before doing anything else.
Still wearing yesterday's clothes. Tank top, hoodie, jeans, socks, everything accounted for.
Relief flooded through me, which meant whatever had happened last night, it had been...
what? Consensual? Voluntary? The edges of my memory were frustratingly fuzzy.
My logic told me I had nothing to worry about since I was fully dressed.
But my gut feeling suggested something else.
There was a bottle of water on the nightstand. Someone had left it there for me. Seven, probably. The thoughtful bastard.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the darkness above me, trying to piece together the events of the previous evening like a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Okay. Let's see what I actually remember.
I'd gone to Katrina's place to help with the property assessment. Then Seven had driven us back to the city. We'd gone to a diner. Then I had a tasteless sandwich and fruity drinks.
Then...karaoke?
Oh God. I'd dragged him to a karaoke bar.
I remembered that part vividly—the terrible song choices, the embarrassing number of drinks I kept consuming, the way he'd looked sitting on that couch like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.
I'd sung Whitney Houston and Taylor Swift and some other questionable music choices.
He'd refused every single offer to join me, which had been hilarious at the time but now felt strange.
And then...
I squinted, trying to focus on the fuzzy edges of the night. We'd left the bar. We were on the street. There was definitely hugging involved. Possibly more than hugging? The thought made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the hangover.
Had I done something inappropriate?
The more I tried to remember, the more the details scattered like startled birds.
I rolled out of bed, then grabbed the water bottle and drained half of it before setting it back down on the nightstand.
I lingered at the door before opening it to step into the living area. Seeing Seven sitting at the kitchen table with a laptop open was jarring. Mostly because he was never around.
He looked up when I appeared, and I immediately felt the awkwardness settle between us like a third person in the room.
"Morning," I said, trying for casual and probably landing somewhere in the neighborhood of guilty. "What time is it?"
"Isn't there a clock in the bedroom?" He shut the laptop.
"Right." I moved to the kitchen and grabbed another bottle of water from the fridge. My hands were steadier than my voice. "So... what exactly happened last night?" I leaned against the kitchen counter and studied whatever I could make out of his profile.
"You left the safehouse without telling me," he said flatly.
"Right. And then?"
"I went to pick you up from your sister's place. We came back."
"That's very specific and also very vague," I muttered. "What about karaoke?"
"What about it?"
"Seven, did I do something embarrassing?"
"Everything's fine."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting right now." He stood, and there was something in his posture that suggested this conversation was over before it had really begun. "I need you to promise me something."
"What?"
"No more freelancing. No more leaving the safehouse without my permission." His eyes were hard, fixed on mine. "If you have a problem, you come to me. You tell me. You don't handle it yourself. Promise me."
"You can't just order me around like that."
"I'm not ordering you. I'm asking."
"You're definitely ordering." I crossed my arms, and I could feel that newly emerged version of me rising to the surface—the one that had spent years being repressed and quiet. "And it doesn't work that way anymore. I'm not the girl who sits quietly and lets things happen to her family."
"Kimmy—"
"No." I held up a hand. "I need you to listen to me.
Valmont is going to come after my entire family if we don't stop him.
My sisters, their partners, their kids. I'm not going to sit in this safe house and pretend that's okay.
" I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides once.
"I know you're trying to protect me, and I get that.
But we don't have the time. You told me that yourself. "
"That's not happening. I'm not getting you into this mess."
"My life has been a mess for three years now. I don't care that it's not how your Bureau does things, but if I can get inside the club, this will end before more people get hurt."
He was quiet and I could see the war playing out behind his eyes—the protocol battling with something else. Something that looked a lot like care.
"You're hungover," he finally said.
"Irrelevant. My point still stands."
"This is dangerous."
"I'm aware." I tilted my head slightly. "But it's happening with or without you at this point now that I know your plan. And we both know it's safer if it happens with you."
I watched him process that, watched him realize he was cornered. The man who lived the rules of an organization that considered emotions irrelevant probably hated it. The other part of him—the part that felt sorry for those who'd already suffered from Valmont's power—seemed to be considering it.
"If you do this," he said slowly, "you follow every instruction. Exactly. No improvisation, no creative problem-solving, no going rogue."
"I can work with that."
"I'm not done." He stepped closer and his voice dropped lower. "If things go sideways, you run. No heroics. You run."
"Okay."
"Then we have a deal."