I stilled, glancing back over my shoulder.
“Can you handle a gun?”
I tilted my head slightly.
“Do you think we shot at cardboard targets in the CIA?”
His brows lifted just a fraction.
Then he gave a small, grudging shrug.
“Fair.”
A pause.
I let a faint smirk settle on my lips as I turned and made my way back to my room.
If Vincenzo came back early—if he found the room empty, if he realized I had left—there would be consequences.
But staying was worse.
Standing still meant thinking, and thinking meant reliving everything I couldn’t escape.
The dinner with Violet.
The forced kiss.
The way he had walked out without a second glance, without hesitation.
If I stayed alone in this house, those thoughts would not fade.
They would circle endlessly, tightening with every pass, until they hollowed me out from the inside.
I could already see it—myself on the floor, curled into the dark, wondering how much more I could endure before something in me finally broke.
I refused to let it get that far.
Not tonight.
What I needed was movement.
Adrenaline. Risk.
Something loud enough to drown out the noise in my head.
Something sharp enough to cut through the ache settling deep in my chest.
Inside my room, I closed the door behind me with quiet control.
I pulled off the hoodie and lounge pants, letting them fall where they landed without care.
Cool air brushed over my skin, raising a faint trail of goosebumps,
I reached for black tactical leggings, pulling them on with practiced ease.
The material fit like a second skin—flexible, reinforced, designed for speed and impact.
A fitted long-sleeve top followed, streamlined and close to the body, made to move without resistance.
