The gun kicks in my hands, the sound cracking through the silent morning, and the target shudders as the bullet embeds itself in the outer ring.
"I hit it!" I spin around, grinning. "Did you see that? I actually hit it!"
Wolfe is smiling. Actually smiling, not the almost-smile I've gotten used to. The expression transforms his face, softens all those hard edges, and my heart does something complicated in my chest.
"Good shot." He takes the gun from me, checking the safety. "Again."
We practice for another hour. By the end, I can hit the center of the target about half the time, and my arms are shaking from the effort, and I feel more powerful than I have in months.
"Thank you." I flex my fingers, working out the stiffness. "For teaching me."
"You're a fast learner."
"I'm motivated." I glance toward the tree line, toward the direction of town. "Is it weird that I almost want him to come? Just to get it over with?"
"Not weird. Anticipation is harder than action." He's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "But he will come. And when he does, I'll be ready."
We. I want to correct him. We'll be ready. But I know what he means. When Derek shows up, Wolfe will handle him. That's the plan. That's what all of this has been leading toward.
So why do I feel like the real confrontation isn't about Derek at all?
We head back inside. Wolfe makes lunch while I shower off the gun oil and sweat, and I stand under the hot water way too long, thinking about the promise he made last night.
Tomorrow. When this is over. When Derek is dealt with and you're safe.
What if I don't want to wait?
The thought crystallizes as I towel off and pull on clean clothes. Leggings and one of Wolfe's flannel shirts because my own clothes still smell like blizzard and fear. The shirt swamps me, falling almost to my knees, but I like the way it feels. Like being wrapped in him.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Wolfe is setting two plates on the table. He looks up, and his eyes track down my body, taking in the oversized shirt, the bare legs beneath it.
His jaw tightens. "That's my shirt."
"My clothes are still damp. You said I could borrow whatever I needed."
"I did say that." He doesn't look away. "Didn't expect you to look like that in it."
"Like what?"
He doesn't answer. Just pulls out a chair for me, his movements a little too controlled, a little too careful.
We eat in charged silence. Every clink of fork against plate sounds too loud. Every accidental brush of fingers when we reach for the salt sends electricity up my arm. I'm hyperaware of him in a way that makes it hard to taste the food, hard to think about anything except the heat building between us.
"Wolfe." I set down my fork. "About last night."
"Sadie."
"You said tomorrow. It's tomorrow."
"Derek is still out there."
"I know. I don't care."
He goes still. "What?"
"I don't care." I push back from the table and stand. "I've already spent months waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Derek to do something. Waiting to feel safe. Waiting to feel anything other than scared." I move around the table toward him. "I'm done waiting."
"This isn't a good idea."
