I glare at him.
“Fine. I won’t. But can I call him a dick?”
“No,” I glare again.
Papa and I usually practice outside, so I lead Matleon to our outdoor shooting range. We stand side by side, aiming our guns at the same target stand.
“At the count of three, we’ll fire,” I say.
He nods.
“One. Two. Three.”
We fire. His bullet hits the bullseye, and mine lands in the X-ring.
“You’ve got very nice shooting skills, Angel,” he says proudly.
“What’s the use? I can only do fun practice. Killing is impossible for me.”
We shoot again. This time I hit the bullseye, though not as perfectly as Matleon. He laughs. “That’s excellent. I’m so proud of you.”
“It doesn’t happen every time,” I mutter and fire again, landing back in the X-ring. Matleon doesn’t take a shot this time. He’s watching me with that proud smile of his.
“You could be an excellent shooter if you practiced more,” he says, echoing what Papa always says.
“Nah. I don’t want to take Zo’s place,” I joke.
He laughs. I chuckle. Zo is at such an unattainable level that his very name turns into a joke automatically.
“How did he become such a shooter?” I ask Matleon, glancing toward my target. After I fire and hit very close to the bullseye, he says, “He had three things: a hunger to become strong, the brain of a genius, and our grandpa Stefan.”
“I’ve never seen his shots. I’ve only heard that he’s so good he’s never missed a single target in his life.”
Matleon nods, a proud smile on his face. “There’s a godlike precision in his shots.” He points his gun toward my forehead. “When we shoot pointing at someone’s forehead, it could hit…” He presses the tip on multiple points of my head, “here, here, anywhere. But when he shoots…” He places the gun on the center of my head. “…it always hits here, unless his aim is intentionally somewhere else. No matter the situation he’s in, he always zeroes his focus on his target while simultaneously knowing everything else happening around him. He is a genius.”
“I think you love him the most,” I tease.
He chuckles. “No, Angel. You know very well who I love the most.”
My heart skips a few beats.
“To keep things clear,” he leans closer, his voice low, “it’s you.”
I look away, muttering while holding back a smile, “You’ve become so cheesy.”
He laughs. “Why not, when my wife likes it.”
My smile slips, melting against his words.
chapter 39
Iselyn
Like yesterday, we work through the afternoon, and after five in the evening, we step out of the house.
The moment we’re outside, he says, “Let’s go to your treehouse,” heat unmistakable in his eyes. My insides melt instantly.
I nod. My feet feel heavy, as if I’m dragging them along the path toward the place where we spent such intensely close time yesterday. Every second of that evening replays in my mind as we approach. We don’t speak a single word on the way; the silence, as always, only thickens the tension. A familiar ache presses insistently between my legs, demanding attention I can barely contain.
