36 Kimmy
I couldn't get comfortable in the safe house.
Not because it wasn't secure, but because I felt useless. And perhaps because Seven was absent.
I considered calling him but didn't want to disrupt his work. He had a tight two-week timeframe to handle his final target before Margaret's return made things dangerous again.
At night, anxiety overwhelmed me. I'd toss and turn for hours, listening to the rain, looking at the digital clock on the nightstand, trying not to imagine what would happen if the person hunting me found this place.
Just like Seven promised, a program had been installed on my phone and laptop to conceal my IP address. He texted me shortly after he left, giving me an all-clear to use my devices.
So I followed my daily routine.
First, I called Dr. Carney to pause our sessions.
Then I worked.
When I wasn't working, I watched self-defense videos. Depending on a man—however appealing he seemed—I barely knew for safety felt inadequate. That's why learning some new techniques was the sensible thing to do.
Today was my third time through the chokehold playlist.
The instructor was a chipper blonde with biceps the size of my thigh. I mirrored her palm strike, her defensive stance, her wrist grab escape. My movements didn't look nearly as crisp, but I kept at it anyway. Practicing without a partner was pointless, but it was better than nothing.
After the wrist grab came the hip throw. I practiced with a rolled-up blanket and nearly threw out my back. The loft echoed every grunt and breath back at me like someone else was in the room.
Eventually, repetition wore me out. I fell back against the couch, gasping. My hands trembled—not from effort, but from the residue of fear that never quite left unless Seven was around.
I didn't want to call Margaret too often.
I considered the possibility that her phone may have been bugged.
Plus, I didn't want to interrupt her vacation.
Or maybe I didn't want her to ask questions because my gut told me that she suspected something was off even though she'd agreed to the vacation.
I checked on her after she'd landed in Nassau and the next day to see if her accommodations were acceptable. In response, she'd texted a photo of herself in a touristy straw hat. Her grin was so wide you could almost hear her laugh.
I'd saved the image to set it as my phone background.
I'd ignored Brynn's call the other day and felt guilty about it.
I debated texting her, then decided I'd better do it before I lost my nerve and ruined our friendship.
hey, i'm off the grid for a bit. just needed to recharge. i'll hit you up when I'm back
Her reply came seconds later.
i thought you were ignoring me, bitch
The winking emoji made me smile.
I was in the middle of watching another set on my laptop—wrists locked, chin tucked, body turned—when the door rattled.
I spun, my fists still coiled tight in front me.
Seven was a dark shape on the threshold, nothing more.
My pulse and my heartbeat went all crazy, even though I felt relief.
He closed the door behind him and stood very still, bandana pulled up as always, eyes shadowed by the visor of a baseball cap.
He wore the same jacket I saw him wearing when he'd left, but I could see a different shirt underneath, gray.
His boots were muddy and he removed them before stepping further into the loft.
Then he took off the gloves and tossed them on the table.
I tried for a greeting, "Hey. You're back."
He nodded once. "I'm going to shower," he said, walking toward the bathroom.
"Sure," I replied, as if this was normal. As if having a strange man who wouldn't show his face come and go in my life made any sense at all.
I heard the clunk of the lock, then the snap of the faucet. I stood frozen in the center of the room, listening to the sound of water hitting the tiles.
He was in there for less than ten minutes. I barely had time to collect myself and wipe the nervous sweat from my hands before he emerged again.
He'd changed into a black T-shirt and black sweatpants. His hair was damp and combed back. This made him look almost like a regular person if not for the bandana covering his mouth and jaw. He did move like a weapon rather than a human.
He walked over to the fridge, pulled out the remaining bread and turkey, and made a sandwich.
As he sat down at the table without touching the food, he glanced at my laptop.
He didn't comment while I tried to repeat the movement playing out in front of me.
At least not for a few long moments. His eyes simply tracked me.
Then he rose up from the chair, stepped over, and, without asking, folded my laptop closed.
I was about to object when he said, "You're never going to learn anything without a partner."
"You think I don't know that?" I scoffed.
"Attack me."
I laughed. "What?"
"Attack me." He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose at his sides.
I hesitated. I'd never laid hands on another person. Even now, the idea of grabbing his arm seemed idiotic, or worse—pointless. "You're injured." I motioned to his abdomen. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You think people chasing me care?" He shifted closer, shrinking the space between us to less than a foot. "You can't learn by just thinking about it," he said, voice clipped. "Come at me."
I did as he asked. I lunged forward and shoved him in the chest, trying to be mindful of his wound. It didn't work. He didn't even budge. He just stared at me over the bandana.
"Wrong," he said, his tone entirely professional.
"You're still thinking like a civilian. Here.
" He reached out, fast but not rough, and took my arm in both of his hands.
With the barest of effort, he spun me around, pinned my wrist behind my back, and then let go.
"It's about leverage. Not force. Try again. "
I squared up, focused on my grip, tried to remember the steps. Then I went for it again. This time, I twisted my hips like he'd shown me, jerked the thumb toward the gap, and tried to roll out from his grasp.
He was ready for it, but let me go. "Better," he said. "You learn fast."
I felt a strange sense of pride, even though it was clear he was only letting me succeed to teach the lesson.
He reset, squared his own shoulders, and said, "Next move. If someone grabs you by the throat."
He made a hand gesture, then, before I knew what was happening, his left hand was at my neck. Not squeezing, just holding, but the pressure was immediate and real.
I froze.
He locked his eyes on mine. "First step is not to panic."
But I wasn't. I was melting from his touch, from the heat spreading from my neck to my chest and below.
"Tuck your chin," he went on, completely oblivious.
"Make a hard shelf with your jaw." He demonstrated, releasing my neck and using his own hands to show the motion.
"If you just pull, you'll never break the grip.
You have to make the attacker uncomfortable.
Hit the nose, the eyes, the groin if you can. Then break the grip with both hands."
I nodded, heart thundering in my chest.
He waited for me to ready myself, then put his hand to my throat again. This time, I managed to collect my bearings. Chin down, both hands up, wedge the thumb, use my body, not my arms.
I brought my hands up, smashed the web of his thumb, and twisted hard to the side.
He let go, but not before squeezing just hard enough to make my head rush.
"Good," he said, stepping back. "Again."
I prepared for the next round. He didn't wait, just came at me with a new angle, a new approach, each time a little different. I broke the hold. He went for it again. I broke it again.
After the fourth or fifth repetition, I was sweating hard. I could smell my own anxiety, the salt and panic of it, and underneath that, something else—his scent, sharp and consuming, a little like ozone after a thunderstorm.
We moved on. He demonstrated the wrist grip, the choke from behind, the bear hug. Each time, he talked me through it, his voice flat and unyielding, but he never touched me longer than he had to.
Except for the time he corrected my stance. I'd planted my left foot wrong, and when I went for the escape, I almost tripped.
He stepped in, caught me by the shoulders, and moved me back into place. His palm was on my hip while he was giving me instructions, but I couldn't concentrate on words, just his hand.
I could feel the warmth of him, the electricity of his body heat, even through the thin cotton of my clothes. My breath caught, and for a second, I forgot what I was supposed to be doing.
He released me, stepped back. "Ready?"
I nodded because my voice suddenly didn't work.
We repeated the drill. I got better. He pressed harder, faster, more real. It didn't feel like a lesson anymore. It felt like something else—something urgent and alive. Like a strange dance, almost a foreplay of some sort.
The physicality of it became a loop, and after a while, I didn't notice the pain or the sweat. I noticed only the thump of my heart, the twitch of his jaw beneath the mask, the way his eyes would go laser-sharp when I surprised him with a good move.
After an hour, we both paused, exhausted. Well, I was. He looked a lot less affected.
Seven straightened up first. "Not bad," he said. "You could survive most things now."
I smiled. "Is that a compliment?"
He shrugged, a tiny movement. "Just stating facts."
"Just admit it, I almost threw you for real."
"You didn't almost throw me," he replied, incredulous.
"I felt you slip," I quipped.
"You felt what I let you feel," he shot back, his voice a little uneven.
"Debatable," I muttered.
We stood there, the air between us thick with something undeclared.
Finally, he said, "Get some water. We're not done yet."
I laughed weakly. "You're actually trying to kill me. That's the real plan, isn't it?"
"If I wanted you dead, you'd already be dead," he deadpanned.
"Comforting." I dragged myself to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and chugged half a bottle. My hands shook. My brain was still fizzing from the adrenaline, the proximity, the way every correction of his had felt like an electric shock. "Really makes me want to continue this torture."
"It's not torture."
"Says the guy who's barely sweating."
I sat the bottled on the table next to the sandwich he'd never touched and crossed the space back to where we were practicing. Seven was at the window, backlit by the city. He didn't look at me, but I knew he was watching my approaching reflection in the glass.
"Do we really need to do this again?" I asked.
This time he said, "Attack me for real."
I blinked. "What?"
"Do what you have to."
I hesitated.
He waited.
I rolled my shoulders and lunged for him. He dodged and spun me around. I countered with an elbow to his ribs, but never made it.
He blocked the blow. Only instead of pushing me away, he drew me closer, until we were chest to chest, the top of my head nearly hitting his chin.
"Better," he murmured, uncharacteristically breathless.
I looked up at him. His eyes were darker than usual, pupils wide. He held me there, not tight, but enough to feel the line of his body against mine.
I realized my hands were gripping the front of his shirt. I could feel the thump of his heart, fast as mine.
As if realizing what he was doing, he let go.
I stumbled back with my pulse roaring in my ears. What was happening to me? Why was I feeling all these things?
"Again," he said. The word was a strained whisper.
I forced myself back into fighting mode, tried to make my form perfect, even as my body shook from more than just the effort.
The next move went wrong—he caught me, but I lost my balance and went down. He did too. We were suddenly falling together. The entire scene was playing out in front of me in slow motion as if I wasn't participating in it but observing. As if I was reading a scene in some romance novel.
I clearly saw us dropping to the floor. The fear of the clash with concrete had me desperately grabbing his neck for leverage. My fingers tangled in the tied fabric of his bandana, and I felt it loosening under my grip as we collided with the floor.
His hand cradled my head right before the impact to absorb the shock. My back hit the surface, hard enough to drive the air out of my lungs.
His body landed on top of mine. We were chest to chest. His elbow absorbed some of the shock.
For a second, everything was silent except for the hiss of our breathing, perfectly in sync.
I pulled my hand away.
The bandana shifted.
My heart skipped a beat.
The fabric slipped down his face, revealing the line of his jaw, the edge of his mouth. A faint scar at the corner of his upper lip was the last thing I saw before I shut my eyes.
"I'm not looking," I whispered reverently. "I swear."
He let out a sound—a tiny rasp. His hand still lingered at the base of my skull, fingers threading through my hair.
We stayed like that for what seemed like forever. Neither of us moved or spoke. His thigh was between my legs and it should have pushed me into panic mode. Only, it didn't.
Then I felt him move, felt his hot breath on my cheeks, his mouth on mine.
My heart was thundering so loud, I couldn't hear myself think.
His lips were plump, warmer than I imagined. He kissed me, soft and hesitant at first, like he wasn't sure if I'd let him.
I did.
The kiss lasted just a breath—a single, electric second.
A shock to my system. But it was enough to send my mind into overdrive.
Intense heat spread through my body and coiled just below my stomach.
I'd never felt anything this powerful in my entire life.
I wanted to look at him as he carefully pulled away.
I wanted to see his face properly. I wanted to study each line, to memorize it, to touch it.
But I respected his boundaries and his need for privacy, so I remained on the floor with my eyes closed as I felt him carefully sliding his palm from under my head, heard him rise to his feet and move away.
There was a rustle of clothes and the sound of footsteps heading toward the door, followed by the click of the lock.
Then silence.
I waited for a few more moments, breathing shakily. When I opened my eyes, the loft was empty. His bandana, jacket, and gloves were gone along with the muddy boots.
I drew in a lungful of air and touched my still tingling lips. My pulse was out of control. My legs were jelly.
The silence pressed in, thick and absolute.
I stared at the ceiling and traced the shape of his mouth where it'd touched with the tip of my tongue.
It wasn't enough.
I wanted more.