“But the moment your finger tightens on that trigger?”
His eyes flicked slightly upward. “Snipers positioned on elevated vantage points will neutralize you.”
My stomach dropped.
What?
“Non-lethal rounds first,” he added casually. “Rubber impact. Taser projectiles. If you still move after that — lethal response.”
My chest caved under the implication.
He had countermeasures already in place.
My gaze shot upward instinctively — scanning the cornices, the dark balcony railings, the mezzanine shadows above us.
Cameras. Hidden platforms. Possible sniper nests.
I shouldn’t have looked.
The second my eyes shifted away from him, his body moved.
Fast. Explosive.
His left hand shot out and clamped around my wrist.
He twisted.
Pain detonated through my arm as he executed a textbook gun-disarm technique — torque applied to force my wrist outward and break my grip.
My fingers nearly lost control of the weapon.
He yanked my arm upward — forcing the muzzle to angle away from his face.
At the same time —
His right arm wrapped around my waist.
He pulled me backward violently.
My back slammed into his chest.
Air knocked from my lungs.
His grip tightened — locking my gun arm upward and pinning it useless.
Then I felt it.
Pressure. Hard. Unmistakable.
Pressing firmly against the small of my back through his trousers.
My brain stuttered.
What the fuck?
I was threatening to kill him —
And he was getting hard?
