"Most true things are." His lips brush my ear. I shiver. "Aim. Both eyes open. Look at the target, not the gun."
I look. The human-shaped target stares back, blank and patient.
I'm very aware of his hand on my stomach. The heat of his chest against my back. The way his thumb is tracing small circles against the fabric. My thighs press together.
"Line up the sights." His voice is low, intimate. "Front sight sharp, target slightly blurred. When you're ready—squeeze. Don't pull. Don't jerk. One smooth motion."
My finger finds the trigger. Cool metal.
"Breathe in." His hand presses harder against my stomach. "Breathe out. At the bottom of the exhale—"
I squeeze.
The gun kicks—barely. The recoil is nothing, a slight push, and then my arms are steady again. Downrange, the target has a hole in its chest.
Center mass.
"Again."
I fire again. Another hole, two inches from the first.
"Again."
Third shot. This one goes through where the throat would be.
His hand hasn't moved from my stomach. His chest is still pressed to my back. I can feel his breath, fast now, against my neck.
"You're adjusting." His voice has gone strange. Strained. "You're adjusting your aim between shots. Nobody taught you that."
"You just told me to aim at the target."
"I told you to aim. I didn't tell you to correct for the recoil pattern and compensate for muzzle rise on a weapon you've never fired." His hand slides lower—just an inch, fingers brushing the hem of the shirt—and stops. "Shoot the rest."
My breath catches. I empty the gun into the target.
Every shot lands. Chest, chest, throat, head, head, chest. The grouping is tight—close enough that I could cover them with one hand.
I lower the gun.
"Well." Koshin's voice is barely a whisper against my ear. "That answers that question."
"What question?"
"Whether you were made for this."
His hand slides under the shirt.
I gasp. His fingers drag up my inner thigh, and I'm still holding the gun. I'm still holding the gun and he's touching me and the target has ten holes in it and this is so fucked up I can't breathe.
"You were." His fingers find me—wet, still sensitive from before—and push inside. "You absolutely fucking were."
My hips jerk. The gun wavers.
"Keep it up." His voice is dark. Commanding. "Keep the gun up. Aim at the target."
"I can't—"
"You can." His fingers curl inside me and I nearly drop the weapon. "Aim. Both eyes open. Front sight sharp."
