KIRA
Atlas gives me a couple of wary looks during breakfast the next day. They’re quick, but not so subtle that I don’t notice. I’m about to ask him if they have bad news to tell me, when he says, “Viper would like to go over some basic firearm safety with you. Not firing. Just handling, and only if you’re open to it.”
“Firearm safety?” It’s the last thing I expected to hear.
“Have you ever fired a gun before?”
I shake my head.
“It’s about preparedness,” he says. “Not fighting.”
I draw in a breath. “Okay.”
He looks uneasy. “You don’t have to, and it doesn’t change how we protect you. It’s just knowledge.”
I glance over at Viper, who has me fixed in his ice-blue gaze. There’s no pressure in the way he’s looking at me, only his usual watchfulness.
“I understand,” I say. “But I want to.”
Mid-morning, Viper leads me outside and down a path toward the shooting range.
“Why the range, if I’m not going to be shooting?” I ask him. At breakfast, Atlas detailed several reasons why I shouldn’t fire a weapon while pregnant, including lead exposure, noise, and the physical impact on the body.
“The range is where we handle guns,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Weather makes it work today, too.”
There’s been a thaw recently, and the snow has receded in areas around the compound. The sky is clear, and the air is cold, but not bitter.
“It’s so quiet out here,” I say. “I’m still not used to it.”
Viper makes a noise in his throat. “Lot of noise in the city. You miss it?” He watches me as if preparing to observe and catalog my answer. From his tone, I get the impression he doesn’t care much for civilization.
“Not really,” I say, “though it’s hard to be objective with all that’s going on.”
Viper nods, but doesn’t say anything.
“I think all this peace and quiet would have unnerved me a few months ago, but now it feels like safety,” I say.
“Quiet does that,” he says.
An older-looking structure off in the distance catches my eye. “Is that the cabin? Atlas and Grizz told me about it.” Viper nods again. “Does anyone ever stay there?”
“Sometimes,” is all he says.
“You, I’m guessing?”
After a pause, he says, “When I need even more quiet.”
I steal glances at him, taking in details from his dark, weathered jacket, that looks like it’s been through several long winters, to his mud-scuffed boots, with the scar on the left toe that’s dented like something heavy might have fallen on it.
The colors he wears are neutral and natural, and I imagine that if he took a few steps off the path, he could blend right into the forest and disappear if he wanted to. “You’re not much of a people person, are you?”
This gets a smirk out of him, and I feel inordinately proud.
“People are overrated,” he says.
“All people?”
His eyes hold mine for a beat, even longer than they usually do. “Not all people,” he says eventually.
