Miss.
She flinches.
“Again,” I say.
Another shot—
Miss.
Her breath catches.
She tries a third time—
Miss.
Her head drops, embarrassment radiating off her.
I step closer until my chest brushes her back, my hand sliding from her hip to her waist. “You’re not doing anything wrong,” I murmur, leaning into her ear. “You’re just not breathing.”
“I am breathing,” she says softly, a small laugh escaping her.
Christ.
That sound. I run my fingertips up the back of her neck—slow, deliberate—and feel the muscle there twitch violently beneath my touch. She goes still. Too still. Her neck is stiff as stone. I wrap my hand gently around the base of it, thumb brushing her pulse. Her breath stutters.
“Rilassati, mia piccola colomba…” I whisper it directly into her ear.
She shivers. Full-body. Uncontrolled. I step back slowly, giving her space. “Now try again.”
She inhales—deep, steady, brave. Then she raises the gun, shoulders loose, jaw set—
BANG.
The bullet hits the target. Not center mass—lower, gut-shot—but enough to drop a man coming for her. A flash of murderous rage surges through me at the thought of anyone trying to hurt her.
But then—She turns toward me. Her eyes wide.A smile spreading across her face—bright, pure, proud.
“I hit it!” she gasps. The world stops. She’s laughing—actual joy—as she looks at me like she wants my approval more than the air she breathes. Everything inside me melts.
I cross the distance in two strides, wrap my arms around her waist, and lift her slightly off the ground before I can think better of it.
“I’m proud of you,” I murmur against her temple. “So damn proud of you, Dove.”
She breathes out a soft sound—half laugh, half relief—and it snaps something inside me. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand not tasting her. I can’t stand pretending I don’t want her. I crush my mouth against hers. Hard. Desperate. Claiming. She gasps into the kiss, fingers curling into my shirt, her body molding to mine like she’s been waiting for this moment—and for one dangerous second—I forget why we came here. I forget the gun.The lessons. The world outside. All I know is her. Her lips. Her breath. Her fire. And the fact that I will never, ever let her go.
Sleep doesn’t come. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment from the past week. Every expression on Elena’s face. Every question she asked. Every time she surprised the hell out of me. Her courage at the restaurant. Her confession outside her room. Her fire at Dante’s dinner. Her determination to learn to shoot. Her laugh when she hit the target. Her mouth under mine at the range hours ago.
My new wife…is not the girl I thought I married. She is more. So much more. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under.
And then—I’m nine years old again.
Concrete. Gunpowder. Fear.
My father stands behind me, arms crossed, face twisted with disgust.
“Hurry up,” he snaps. “Don’t stand there like a coward.”
My hands shake around the pistol. It’s too big. Too heavy. I aim at the paper silhouette.
