"You can't know that."
We fall into silence, then. I can feel the tension in Elio's body, the way his jaw clenches as he processes what I'm not saying directly—that I don't feel equipped to protect myself, that the thought of facing Desmond again terrifies me more than I can articulate.
"I could teach you," he says finally.
"Teach me what?" I look at him sideways, but he’s not meeting my eyes.
"Self-defense. How to handle a weapon properly. Basic skills that could save your life if you ever find yourself in a situation like that again."
I pull back to stare at him, recognizing the determined set of his features that I remember from childhood arguments. "Elio, no. You know how I feel about guns." He should, at least. I hate the things. Ronan always wanted me to learn to shoot one, especially given my position in the family and the work I do for them, but I always refused. I hate how they look, how theyfeel, the fact that I could so easily end someone’s life with one. Murdering someone should take more than just the twitch of a finger against a trigger. The power of it—it makes my skin crawl.
I’ve long since accepted that I live in a world where everyone around me relies on guns for their protection and mine, but I’ve never wanted to touch one. Certainly never wanted to learn to shoot.
"This isn't about your philosophical objections to guns—" Elio begins, and I feel myself tense, ready for an argument.
"Isn't it?" I stand up, suddenly needing distance from him and his logical solutions to my fears, solutions that I don’t want in the slightest. "You want to put a gun in my hands and teach me how to kill people. How is that not relevant to how I feel about them?"
"It's about survival." He watches me from where he’s sitting, his voice gaining strength with conviction. "It's about giving you a means to protect yourself if someone tries to hurt you again."
"I don't want to hurt anyone."
"Even Desmond?"
The question stops me cold. Because the truth is, I do want to hurt Desmond. I want him to suffer the way he made me suffer, to feel powerless and afraid and violated. The depth of my own capacity for vengeance scares me. I’ve never felt it before.
Maybe part of why I want Elio to do this for me is so that I don’t have to feel it. So that I can hide from how vicious I’ve realized I can be when someone hurts me.
"That's different," I say weakly.
"How?" Elio’s voice is gentle, but even. He’s not going to let me run away from this, the same way he never let me run from arguments when we were younger.
“Because—” I lick my lips. I don’t have an answer. “It just… is.”
“It’s not, and you know it.” Elio lets out a sharp breath. “I can’t be here to protect you every moment, Annie. I’ve left guards, but they’re men. They’re fallible, too. You said you feel helpless. I can give you a way to combat that feeling. To know you have a solution if Desmond comes for you again.”
“He won’t,” I whisper. “You’re going to stop him.”
"I can't guarantee that." His voice is sharper now, edged with fear. "This isn't a fairy tale where everything works out perfectly because we want it to. This is real life, with real consequences and real dangers."
"I know it's real life," I snap, my own fear transmuting into anger. "I'm the one who lived through it, remember? I'm the one who has nightmares about what almost happened to me."
"Then why won't you do something about it?" The question comes out harsh, and Elio immediately reins in his tone. "Why won't you take steps to ensure it never happens again, if I can’t get to him before he finds you?"
"Because I'm not like you!" The words explode out of me with more force than I intended. "I’m not like my brother, or my father! I'm not comfortable with violence. I'm not okay with the idea of carrying a weapon. I don't want to become someone who solves problems by hurting people."
"And what's the alternative?" Elio demands. "Hide out here and hope you’re kept safe? Hope I get to him in time? Let him hurt you again if he gets past my men? Annie, you don’thaveto use it. But at least you’d know how.”
I feel tears well in my eyes. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be forced to learn how to use a weapon I never wanted to have anything to do with. And I know Elio is right. But the thought of holding a gun, of learning to use it against another human being, makes my stomach turn.
"I can't," I whisper. "I just can't."
Elio's expression softens, and he stands up slowly, reaching for my hand. "Yes, you can. I'll be with you every step of the way. We'll go slow."
Slow like last night?I bite back the words, wishing for his hands on me again. For pleasure to wipe away the fear and anxiety and the memory of Desmond’s hands on me. "What if I freeze up?” I whisper. “What if when the moment comes, I can't pull the trigger?"
"Then at least you'll have the option. At least you won't be completely helpless."
I stare into his eyes, seeing the desperation there, the need to do something—anything—to protect me from the dangers he can't always shield me from. And despite every instinct that rebels against what he's suggesting, I find myself nodding.
