I roll my eyes playfully. “It wasn’t that kind ofhey. I’m thinking about doing some target practice. Want to tag along, or do you have work?”
“Of course I’ll follow you like an obedient puppy.” He grins. “Gentleman obedient puppy.”
I laugh, rolling my head back against the couch. “Gentleman puppy.”
I stop when I hear a click. Matleon just snapped a photo of me while I was laughing like a woman whose parents never spent a penny on her etiquette lessons.
I shift closer to him. “Show me the image.”
He turns his phone toward me. My eyes widen in horror. This is bizarre. I unconsciously run my tongue over my teeth—do I really have such huge teeth? They look small in the mirror.
“Delete it,” I plead.
He shakes his head and puts his phone back in his trouser pocket. “No chance.”
I clasp my hands together. “Please, Matleon. This is the ugliest image I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“It’s not. And I’m not deleting it, even if you beg on your knees,” he smirks, leaning closer to whisper in my ear: “Naked.”
I pull away, glaring at him. He gets up. “Let’s do target practice.” He glances behind us. “Would you mind if I accidentally shoot someone?”
“Yes, very much. Marco is family.”
He raises a brow. I roll my eyes at his typical jealous, possessive expression. “He’s married, has three kids, and the fourth is on the way.”
He nods slowly with a hum.
I start walking. “Let me show you where our weapons are.”
I take him toward the staircase. Below it, racks line one side, while a wooden wall covers the other, hidden from view for anyone entering from the main door. I crouch down, slide the wood from the corner, and enter the code. The wall slides open, revealing the way to the basement.
We climb down the stairs and reach another door. I enter its code, and a strong iron door slides open. The entire basement is designed to withstand a massive bomb attack.
Matleon looks around. “This is a nice place.”
Weapons and protective gear of all kinds fill the space. The basement is four times the size of the house above.
I take my usual gun from the closet rack. Matleon picks up and drops several before finally choosing his gun.
“What was wrong with the others?” I ask.
“Not every gun is for everyone. They just didn’t feel right.”
I glance down at my gun. “Is this a pro-shooter thing? Because I just chose the first one when Papa asked me to pick.”
He takes my gun from my hand and places his in my palm. The weight feels off, unbalanced. I chuckle. “I get it,” I say, returning his gun to him.
He moves behind me and hugs me from behind. My chest tightens, my pulse jumps. “Let’s practice now,” he murmurs.
“Like this?” I manage to get the question out of my throat.
His one hand holds the gun against my waist, while the other slides down to my forearm, wrapping around my hand that’s gripping the gun.
“I’ll help you handle the recoil,” he mutters, pressing his cheek against mine.
“I can handle the recoil,” I breathe.
Then a knock at the door slices through the tension. Matleon moves back, his eyes dark. “I seriously want to kill him.”
