The idea that Sean—the Wolf of Dublin, the Council's most feared operative—was once a beginner at this seems impossible. But the thought steadies me somehow.
He picks up the gun and walks me through the parts, the safety mechanisms, the proper way to hold it. Then he moves behind me, positioning my hands correctly on the grip, adjusting my stance.
"Feet shoulder-width apart," he instructs, his hands on my hips, shifting me into position. "Lean forward slightly. Arms extended, elbows soft. Look down the sights at the target."
I try to focus on his instructions, but it's difficult when I can feel his breath on my neck, when his hands are burning through my leggings where they rest on my hips. His chest is almost pressed against my back.
"Breathe," he says quietly. "You're tensing up."
I force myself to take a breath, to relax my shoulders. Sean's hands move from my hips to my arms, adjusting my grip.
"When you're ready, squeeze the trigger," he says. "Don't jerk it. Smooth, steady pressure. The recoil is going to surprise you the first time, but don't let it scare you. Just reset and aim again."
He steps back, giving me space. I stare down the range at the target, my heart pounding. The gun feels heavy in my hands, foreign and dangerous. I’m not sure I want to shoot it, but then I think of the afternoon out on the trail. I think of the man who came to our house, demanding debts be paid before we could even verify that he was telling the truth.
I’ve always lived in a dangerous world. I’ve just never had to face it before. And now, the person who protects me is a man so equally dangerous that I’m never sure if I can fully trust him or not.
What if something happens to him? What if he’s not always there? I think of how I felt after Desmond died, how alone and helpless I was. How I was meat for any wolf who wanted to hunt me down… including the one who found me.
I squeeze the trigger.
The explosion of sound makes me jump even through the ear protection. The gun kicks back in my hands, and I nearly drop it. My shot goes wide, missing the target entirely.
"Again," Sean says from beside me. "You flinched. Keep your eyes open this time, and don't anticipate the recoil."
I try again. And again. And again.
Every shot misses. Some by a lot, some by a little, but none of them hit the target. Frustration builds in my chest, acidic and burning. It feels like I’m just confirming what everyone has always believed about me—that I'm not good at anything. Just the mousy, shy bookworm who never excelled at anything except staying out of the way.
"I can't do this," I finally say, lowering the gun. My arms are aching. "I'm sorry, I just?—"
"Hey." Sean's hand closes over mine on the gun, steadying it. "Look at me."
I reluctantly meet his eyes. They're dark and intense, but not angry. Not disappointed.
"You've been shooting for twenty minutes," he says. "Did you expect to be an expert immediately?"
"I expected to at least hit the target once," I mutter.
"Why?" He sounds genuinely curious. "You've never held a gun before today. Why would you expect to be good at it right away?"
Because I want to impress you, I think, but don't say.Because for once in my life, I want to be good at something. Because I want you to look at me like I'm capable instead of like I'm a burden you're stuck with.
"Let's try something different," Sean says. He moves behind me again, and this time, when his arms come around me, his hands cover mine on the gun. "I'll help you get a feel for it."
His body is pressed against my back, his arms bracketing mine. I can feel every hard plane of him, can smell the clean scent of his skin. This time, I can feel his hips pressing against me, the curve of my rear fitting neatly against him. Every inch of his body is bracing mine. My heart is racing, but not from fear of the gun anymore.
"Breathe," he says again, his voice low near my ear. "Relax into it. Feel how I'm holding steady? That's what you want. Firm but not rigid."
I try to focus on the gun, on the target, but all I can think about is how it feels to be held by him like this. How different it is from the training upstairs—this isn't instruction, this is... something else. Something that makes my skin feel too hot, and my breath come too fast. He might be telling me to keep my stance from being too rigid, but he’s not following his own advice, because I can feel the thick ridge of him swelling against my backside, stiffening the longer we stay like this, pressed together.
"Now," Sean murmurs. "Squeeze."
With his hands guiding mine, I squeeze the trigger. The gun fires, and this time I'm ready for the recoil, braced against his solid body. When I look downrange, there's a hole in the target. Not center mass, not anywhere close to vital, but on the paper.
"You did it," Sean says, and I can hear something like pride in his voice.
He releases me and steps back, and I immediately miss his warmth. But the glow of accomplishment is spreading through my chest, bright and unfamiliar.
