She sighs, mutters, “You’re no fun,” and lifts the hem just enough to expose the holster.
The leather sits smooth against her ribs. My work, my measurements, my settings. Yeah. I noticed Wraith had altered the strap angle to compensate for her height. I already corrected it back. His adjustment was fine for comfort. Mine is for speed.
I tap the grip. “First lesson. You do not draw like the fucking movies, that will get you killed.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know—”
“No,” I cut in, voice flat. “Youthinkyou know. There’s a difference. You were trained for controlled environments, Ember. Dead streets. Clean drops. Eyes on you, backup on you. Your handling was meant to keep you from giving the Crown a PR nightmare.”
She goes very still.
I keep going. “Tomorrow isnotthat. Tomorrow is Syndicate corporate fronts, and mercenaries who don’t care about jurisdiction. Tomorrow, if Damien moves on you, he’s not going to put a gun to your temple and whisper about loyalty. He’s going to smile and put two in your ribs like you’re a loose end that got misplaced in paperwork. You’re not impressive to him. You’re a liability.”
Her jaw tightens. “I know,” she says quietly.
“I need you,” I say, stepping in closer, “to stop believing that just because you can think your way out of a room, you can’t also die in one.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
There it is — the flash of temper, the hurt under it. The stubborn refusal to be less than any of us. The spark that made Caelum look twice. The one that got Ronan feral. The one that made Mateo stop playing and start circling. The one that made Nikolai question his religion. The one that made me, rationally, clinically, obsess.
I lower my voice.
“Ember,” I say. “Listen to me.”
Her throat works.
“Tomorrow,” I say, “if he touches you, you don’t argue with him. You don’t negotiate with him. You don’t go for his throat. You go for bone at the wrist and air at the lung. That’s it.”
Her eyes flicker. “Wrist, lung,” she murmurs.
“Good.” I take her hand and place it at the grip. Her skin is warm. Small. Not fragile. “Show me your draw.”
She breathes in. Her movements are good — better than good. Smooth. Controlled. Showing years of training under M16. The training I’m desperately hoping will keep her safe now. Her elbow tucks, her wrist stays straight, her fingers wrap without over gripping.
“Again,” I say.
She does it, this time a little faster—better.
“Again,” I repeat.
She does it. Same movements, same speed.
“Again.”
She huffs. “You’re going to make me do this fifty times, aren’t you.”
“One hundred,” I say. “Minimum.”
She mutters, “Sadist,” under her breath.
“Mateo’s the sadist,” I say. “I’m the archivist.”
That gets me a small, involuntary twitch at the corner of her mouth. She draws. Reholsters. Draws. Reholsters.
By the tenth repetition she’s breathing in counts. By the twentieth, her body starts doing it without conscious thought. By the thirtieth, she’s even quicker. Fast enough to matter. Not fast enough to impress me.Yet.
“Again,” I say.
