I do as he says, aiming at one of the targets.My arms shake slightly from holding the position, and the gun wavers.
“Breathe,” Scout says.“In through your nose, out through your mouth.Steady yourself.Then, when you’re ready, squeeze the trigger.Don’t pull.Squeeze.”
I take a breath.Hold it.Squeeze.
The gun bucks in my hands, the recoil shocking even though I was expecting it.The bullet goes wide, hitting the hay bale several feet from the target.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Hey, you hit something,” Hollywood says.“That’s more than most people manage on their first try.Again.”
We go through it again.And again.And again.
My arms are screaming by the fifth shot, my hands cramping from gripping the gun so tightly.But the bullets are getting closer to the target, and that small victory fuels something inside me.
I’m not helpless.
I can learn this.
“Better,” Scout says after my tenth shot actually hits the outer ring of the target.“You’re improving fast.Want to take a break?”
“No.”The word comes out fiercer than I intend.“I want to keep going.”
Something flickers across Scout’s face, respect, maybe, and he nods.“Alright.Let’s work on your draw.If something’s coming at you, you’re not going to have time to stand here and take your sweet time aiming.”
He shows me how to draw from a holster, the motion quick and practiced.I try it, fumbling the gun on my first attempt, but getting it right on the second.
“Again,” Scout says.
I do it again.And again.And again.
My muscles burn.Sweat trickles down my spine despite the cold.But I don’t stop.
Because every time I raise the gun, I’m not seeing the target.I’m seeing the shadow.The claws.The thing that marked me and thinks it owns me.
And I’m telling it to go fuck itself.
“Tessa.”Vex’s voice cuts through my focus, and I lower the gun, turning to face him.
He’s moved closer without me noticing, his eyes tracking every move I make.“You’re tensing your shoulders.It’s throwing off your aim.”
“I’m trying—”
“I know.”He steps onto the mat, moving with inhuman grace that makes my breath catch.“Let me help.”
He comes up behind me, and suddenly his hands are on my hips, adjusting my stance.His chest presses against my back, cold even through the layers of clothing, and his breath ghosts across my neck.
Every nerve ending in my body lights up.
“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low enough so only I can hear.“You’re fighting yourself.Let your body do what it needs to do.”
His hands slide up my sides, over my arms, adjusting the angle of my elbows.One hand settles on my shoulder, thumb pressing into the tense muscle there, and I have to bite back a moan.
This is torture.
Sweet, exquisite torture.
“Better,” he says, his lips so close to my ear I can feel them move.“Now breathe.In.Out.Good.Aim.”
