"You're a shifter?"
He's still smiling. "Yes, and we recognize our own. I know what he is. Just like I knew those special forces boys you brought here on leave weren't all human. You think I've been running a range in this town for forty years without recognizing my own kind when they walk through the door?"
He turns to me, and his gaze is assessing but not unfriendly. "You're one of Knox's, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him he's welcome here anytime. Professional courtesy between prides." He winks. "Plus, anyone Ash vouches for is good in my book. That boy's been coming here since he was barely tall enough to see over the counter. Now go on, teach your boy to shoot. Lane six is open."
He heads into the back office, leaving us alone in the front area.
Ash is staring after him. "Twenty years," he says slowly. "Twenty years coming here, and I never knew he was a shifter."
"You couldn't smell it."
"No, I just—" He shakes his head. "I've known shifters a lot longer than I realized. Been around them my whole life without knowing."
"It happens more than you'd think. We're good at blending in when we need to."
He turns to look at me. "You were going to ask permission. Even if it meant you might have to leave."
"It's protocol. Respect. You don't walk into another pride's territory without acknowledgment."
"But you wanted to be here."
I hold his gaze, letting him see the truth. "Yeah. I did."
Relief crosses his face. Maybe pleasure. "Come on. Let me show you how to shoot."
---
The range is louder than I expected, even with the ear protection Ash hands me. Other shooters in distant lanes, the crack of gunfire echoing off concrete walls, the mechanical sounds of slides racking and clips being changed. Ash leads me to lane six, far enough from the others that we have some privacy.
He moves like he belongs here. Every gesture efficient, practiced, automatic. He handles the weapons like they're extensions of his body—checking chambers, laying out supplies, setting up targets with military precision. This is his element the same way the kitchen is mine.
"Ever held a gun before?" he asks.
"No."
"We'll start with a nine millimeter. Good beginner pistol. Manageable recoil, easy to control." He picks up a handgun from the case—black, compact, deadly-looking—checks that it's empty with practiced efficiency, and holds it out to me grip-first. "Firstrule: always assume it's loaded. Even when you know it's not. Even when you just checked yourself."
"Okay."
"Second rule: never point it at anything you don't want to destroy. Not as a joke, not by accident, not ever."
"Got it."
"Third rule—" He moves closer, adjusting my grip on the handle. "Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot. Finger stays along the frame until the moment you're committed."
His hands are warm and calloused, repositioning my fingers with care. His touch is professional, instructional, but I still have to fight not to react to it. His fingers against mine. The heat of him standing so close.
"Good." He steps back, evaluating my stance with a critical eye. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight slightly forward, leaning into it."
I adjust. He circles me, looking at me from all angles like he's assessing a piece of equipment.
He adjusts my ear protection and then helps me put on safety glasses, which make everything look slightly yellow. He steps back to look at me and his mouth curves. "Looking good."
He smiles and then moves behind me.
