37 Seven
I ran through the parking lot.
My body moved as if it belonged to someone else, each joint snapping with purpose, but my head was full of static and noise.
Her mouth felt like heaven, like something pure and absolutely forbidden for a man like me.
Her scent, subtle and sweet, still clung to my skin and clothes. I didn't know how to get rid of it or if I wanted to.
My pulse wouldn't come down. It spiked, then reset, then spiked again as I hit the garage.
This physical reaction wasn't typical on the job. So why the hell was this happening after I'd kissed a woman?
My spare burner—the one I used to talk only to her—buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out and stared at the tiny screen lit up, debating.
I understood it was shitty of me to leave without a word, but my mind was a mess. Anything I said to her right now wouldn't make much sense. Hell, it didn't make sense to me. I needed to sort this out first.
So, I put the phone away.
My brain told me to get in the car. The target's dogs were aware I rode a bike. Every damn mercenary in this city probably knew by now. I'd been sloppy. I'd be easy to spot. But my eyes landed on the Ducati anyway. The bike was parked in the corner, where the cement bled oil stains.
No one knew about this safe house except me, Viper, and Father. Every operative had their own place and other operatives didn't have access. And I was certain that Bale Security assholes, who'd been chasing me would never guess this location, and would never track me here.
With that logic, I mounted the bike, jammed the key, and thumbed the starter. The engine's scream kicked me in the chest.
Perfect.
I peeled out, tires shrieking, and shot up the ramp. Rain had started again since I went in. It hit my helmet, blurring the word unfolding in front of me. I didn't care.
I cut hard onto the street, lane-splitting without caring, flicking my eyes left and right, then left again. Nothing behind me. Nothing ahead.
But inside, I was all turbulence.
I hit the throttle and gunned it, weaving through the traffic clogging this part of the city. I almost ran a red, barely missed a van, then another. In my head, I knew to be careful. Getting caught on the traffic light cameras for violation was the worst way for me to get on the authorities' radar.
Again, I didn't care.
I hit the next stretch of open road and sped up, engine howling, body hunched low over the bars. The city blurred past—concrete, glass, chain-link, sidewalks with umbrellas.
I remembered the heat of her skin, the way her body molded to mine for that painful moment, the way I wanted—no, needed—to taste her again, to push past the rules, to feel her without barriers.
But rules were all I'd ever had.
Rules and numbness.
I almost missed the turn for the Bureau compound. I braked hard, the rear wheel locked, slewing me sideways until I righted. The adrenaline shot straight to my brain, clearing out everything for a single, crystalline moment.
I swung into the underground, drove past the vehicles, past the security measures, and into my designated parking spot.
I sat for a moment, eyes shut, gloved hands trembling on the bars.
My whole body was charged, sick and alive like never before. I wanted to hit something, or maybe tear the world apart with my bare hands.
Instead, I removed the helmet and climbed off the bike.
Once inside the compound, I pulled out my burner and dialed Secretary.
"I need to see Father," I said without any greetings.
"He is occupied."
"Bullshit," I snapped. "Tell him I need to see him now." I knew getting emotional was against the rules of the Bureau. But somehow, I couldn't hold it back.
My demand was met with dead silence.
"Now," I growled into the phone.
Secretary made a noise, then said, "I'll check if he's available."
"He better make himself available for me."
I'd never asked Father about anything, but it was time.
I was going to get answers, one way or another.
The office was just as impersonal as it had always been.
No windows. No clocks. Just the low hum of the vents and that same table that ate the center of the room. Two chairs. Today, the lamp between them turned low so that everything was drenched in yellow and black.
I'd seen all this before a million times.
Father sat in his usual chair, a boulder of a man with his face in the shadow.
I didn't sit. I was too wired, too antsy, too pissed off.
I stood on the opposite side of the table, hands at my sides, shoulders squared.
"You wanted to see me, Operative Seven?" he supplied.
"Who am I?"
A pause. Just long enough to let the question echo.
"You are Operative Seven," he said. "Best asset of the Bureau. Trained since age seven. Purpose-built for this." His words landed in the air like ice cubes, slow and deliberate.
That much was true. I'd started learning the basics as soon as I was removed from the group home. But, the hardest part of the training—the physical one—hadn't began until I was fourteen. Five years later, I'd be doing jobs on my own.
"That's not what I asked," I said.
"How do you mean?" Father sounded like he was enjoying it.
"What's my real name?"
"You've never asked before."
"I never needed to."
"And now?"
"Now I need to know." Because if she has one, then I must have one too.
He watched me. I couldn't see the eyes, but I could feel him scrutinizing me.
"Why?" he finally asked.
I tried to slow my breathing. I couldn't. My chest was still a furnace, still burning down the world.
I locked my eyes on the dark spot where his face was according to my calculations, hoping my gaze landed where it needed.
"I had parents once," I said. "They'd given me a name.
I remember pieces of it. There was a beach. An ocean. There was an angel."
"That part of your life is in the past. Trust me, you do not want to go back there."
"Why?"
He exhaled, almost a sigh. "You had a difficult start. Many of the children who come to the Bureau do."
"I want to know my real identity."
Father was silent again, and it lasted longer this time. "If that's what you want," he supplied finally, sounding almost mournful. "But I'm warning you… You may not like what you find.”
"I don't care. I need to know."
He drew a deep, tired breath and said, "I hope you will not regret this, Operative Seven."