Chapter 18
XAVIER
The indoor range is where I come to blow off steam. It’s enjoyable to imagine shooting my enemies, to bury rounds in a paper target while improving my skill. But today, the fantasy of killing them doesn’t give me the usual satisfaction.
The air around me is thick with concentration, the sound of gunfire a constant echo bouncing off the concrete walls. Every recruit present is trying to qualify as a marksman, which is easy, considering we’ve been training for years. It’s rare, but people still manage to fail. I’m not sure what happens to them, and I have no interest in finding out.
After securing the rifle snugly against my shoulder, I exhale slowly, gently squeezing the trigger; not pulling it. The blast from the discharge rings in my ears despite my protective gear, but my shot hits the bullseye. Not surprising. I’m the heir to a weapons empire.
The target downrange isn’t far enough to be a concern, although the distance is substantial. My thoughts drift to Delilah and the way she’s withdrawn from me over the past few days.When I focus on the bullseye, I can’t help but compare the gap between me and it to my relationship with my little raptor.
I shoot again, the need to concentrate breaking through my musings. This time, I imagine Benjamin’s face in the center of the paper. Another perfect mark follows the first. Even with the satisfaction of hitting the target coursing through me, a nagging sense of unease lingers.
I can’t lose Delilah to whatever is bothering her. I suspect it has something to do with either Benjamin or the Sanguine Solstice, but whenever I confront her about one subject or the other, she blows me off. Normally, I’d fuck some sense into her and make her come so hard that her defenses crumble at my feet. But with her unable to have sex, my preferred manipulation tactics aren’t available.
“Good job, Donovan.”
I swing my gaze to the arms instructor beside me. Even with my ears covered and rifles firing all around, I should’ve noticed him before he got close to me. My lack of vigilance pisses me off.
My bride is the reason for this lapse in focus.
I nod at him and turn back to forward facing, releasing another round in an act of dismissal. The evening progresses quickly, and soon, the recruits and I are ushered into a different kind of training—a clearing exercise designed to test our tactical decision-making. The setup is a mock urban environment with buildings made of plywood and metal frames, and rooms furnished sparsely to mimic a real-life scenario.
My objective: enter, clear the room of hostiles—played by my fellow recruits—and secure the area without being terminated.
The Order doesn’t believe in minimal casualties. It’s either all or nothing.
“Donovan, you’re up first,” the instructor says.
I put my tactical gear on, pulling on every shred of discipline I have to concentrate on the task at hand. Despite my bestefforts, Delilah’s beautiful face flashes in my mind before I position myself at the door leading into the training exercise.
From the balcony where he can oversee my performance, the instructor says, “Proceed.”
I slink through the door with my senses on high alert, the paintball gun firmly resting in my hands. The room is filled with targets—paper cutouts that pop up unexpectedly, forcing me to make split-second decisions. That’s not taking the other assassins into consideration.
Adrenaline rushes through me when I fire off a shot at Alaric Paine, nailing him in the face, his mask now covered in neon blue paint.
He rips it from his head with a curse. “Fucking X.”
I don’t acknowledge him, keeping my head on a swivel as he exits. Moving forward, I clear a narrow hallway that leads to a series of interconnected rooms, each potentially harboring more hostiles. My training kicks in, muscle memory guiding my actions as I enter the second room.
Along with a minute rustle of clothing, I catch the glimpse of a shadow moving behind a makeshift barrier. I take a moment, breathe, then step out and fire. The paintball hits its mark, splattering blue across the chest of another recruit who nods in acknowledgment.
“Fucker,” Declan says, a smile in his voice.
“Love you too, asshole.”
The exercise intensifies as I navigate deeper into the simulated environment. Despite the distractions of the pop-ups, I manage to take down another four hostiles, each one marked by a streak of color that stands out against the drab surroundings.
I can’t deny the satisfaction that one of them is Benjamin. He’s lucky I didn’t shoot him in the balls. Home-wrecking motherfucker.
With five men down, I advance toward the rear of the building, a large, open space that puts me at a disadvantage. I take a deep breath and edge into the room, gun raised, ready to confront the last of my opponents.
As I sweep the area, two more targets reveal themselves, popping up from behind cover. My reactions are immediate, two quick shots, and both are down, marked by the telltale splatter of paint. Seven hostiles eliminated.
Just as I’m about to leave, my eyes catch something unexpected on a table in the corner of the room—a photograph. It’s Delilah, looking back at me. I stare down at the picture with a frown, completely thrown off-kilter by her image in this environment.
My head snaps back by the impact of a paintball hitting my mask in the forehead. Neon pink paint drips down my face, a glaring sign of my lapse in focus. Eric stands across the room, paintball gun lowered. He removes his mask and meets my gaze, a smirk on his face.
