"Try again," he says. "On your own this time."
I feel a flash of disappointment that he’s not still touching me, and push it away quickly. I raise the gun, remembering how it felt when he was guiding me. The steadiness, the control. I breathe out slowly and squeeze the trigger.
The bullet hits the target. Not where I was aiming, but on the paper.
"Again."
I fire again. Another hit.
"Good. Keep going."
I empty the rest of the magazine, and while not every shot hits, more than half of them do. By the time the gun clicks empty, I'm breathing hard, and my arms are trembling with fatigue, but I can't stop the smile spreading across my face.
I hit the target. Multiple times. Me—clumsy Maeve who can't do anything right.
When I turn to look at Sean, he's watching me with an expression I've never seen before. Something almost like... admiration?
"I'm impressed," he says simply.
Those two words hit me harder than I expect.I'm impressed.Not "good job for a beginner" or "that's adequate."Impressed.
I duck my head, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "I only hit it a few times."
"A few times more than most people do in their first session." Sean takes the gun from me and sets it down on the counter, then removes his ear protection. I do the same. "You did well today, Maeve. Both in the gym and here. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."
That unfamiliar feeling is growing in my chest, warm and bright and terrifying. Pride, maybe. Or the beginning of belief that maybe I'm not as useless as I've always thought.
"Thank you," I say softly. "For teaching me. For... for believing I could do it."
Something shifts in Sean's expression. He takes a step toward me, then stops himself, jaw tightening.
"We'll train every day," he says, his voice rough. "You'll keep getting better. Keep getting stronger."
"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Why does it matter to you if I can protect myself?"
Sean is quiet for a long moment, and I think he's not going to answer. Then: "Because you're my wife. My responsibility. And I might not always be there to protect you. I can’t be by your side every second, and I doubt that you want me to be. If you’re capable of defending yourself, you can have more freedom."
My wife.
The possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with that strange, confusing want that's been building since our wedding night.
And then there’s the fact that he thought to care whether or not I have freedom. That he paused to consider that I might not want him shadowing my every movement.
"Okay," I whisper.
Sean stares at me for another moment, something heated flickering in his dark eyes. Then he turns away abruptly. "Let's go. You should eat something."
I follow him back to the car on shaky legs, my mind spinning. The training session has left me exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. My body aches in new places, my hands smell like hot metal, and I can still feel phantom imprints of Sean's hands on my hips, my arms, my hands.
I've never felt more alive.
Growing up in my sister's shadow, I learned to make myself small. To take up less space, to want less, to be less. After she died, after Dad died, I got even smaller—a ghost in my own life, going through the motions of existence without really living.
But today, for the first time since I can remember, I felt like I was more than just Siobhan and Desmond's little sister. More than just the girl no one expected anything from.
Today, I felt capable.
And the man responsible for that—the cold, dangerous man I was forced to marry—looked at me like I was someone worth teaching.
