“You think Walsh sent those—”
“I know,” he interrupts me, his voice low and dangerous. “I know it was him.” One hand comes off the wheel and falls to my leg, gripping me tightly as if seeking comfort in the midst of his anger. “If I had been a second late—” His fist collides with the dash once, twice, three times. The car swerves dangerously, but he quickly regains control. He turns to look at me, and I swear, for the first time, there is a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“I’m alright,” sliding my hand to his leg, I try to calm him down. “Do you want me to drive?”
“No,” he snorts, shaking his head. “I’m fine to drive.” After a few beats, his shoulders drop from under his ears, and he lets out a deep sigh. Bringing my hand to his lips, he presses a gentle kiss on my knuckles before focusing back on the road ahead. “I’m sorry, I just… I can’t lose you,” he admits. “I almost fucking did.” He flips the indicator and changes lanes, guiding us onto the motorway.
I glance at him, noticing the tension in his jaw. “Do I want to know who you asked Robbie to contact?”
“No,” I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see smoke billowing from his nostrils right about now. “It’s better if you don’t get involved.”
“I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.” I stifle ayawn, then another. It’s strange that I feel like I could sleep for a month when I was staring down the barrel of a gun twenty minutes ago. You’d think I’d be wide awake after that kind of scare, but I guess the adrenaline is finally wearing off. I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, convinced he won’t answer.
His fingers dig into my leg, pulling it closer to him. “The only one in danger here is the bastard who sent those men to our home.”
It is right then that I understand his request. Walsh sent goons for Aiden; my man has just ordered soldiers to the front lines. He’s going to war.
24
AIDEN
Katie stares, and stares, and stares as if I were handing her a dead puppy instead of a gun. “Master has giving Dobby his Glock,” she mutters, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Dobby doesn’t know how to use the Glock. Dobby’s going to shoot herself in the foot!”
Of course, her ADHD is rearing its head with her vocal stimming. It was Gollum earlier and Sam Wise last night at dinner when she wanted me to peel potatoes.
“You’re not going to shoot yourself in the foot, bug,” I position her in front of the target and guide her hands to hold the gun properly. Pointing to the back sight, I explain how to aim and gently remind her to focus. “Remember, Dobby, take a deep breath and squeeze the trigger slowly; don’t panic and yank it back.”
“I don’t know how to load it.”
Placing her hands on the slide, I show her how to chamber a round and release the safety. “You got this, Dobby.” Nudging her legs apart, I stand behind her, adjusting her arms as needed to stop any potential recoil. “Breathe.”
“You couldn’t just give me a knife, no?” Katie snaps, clearly uncomfortable with my Glock in her hands.
“Knives are messier. More personal. You’re less likely to be traumatised by shooting someone from a distance.”
“I’m traumatised enough, what’s one more notch in my belt?” Katie grumbles, doing her pouty face again.
“If you want a knife, I’ll get you one, but first.” I pull her shoulders back and remind her to focus on her target. “Just breathe; squeeze the trigger gently.”
She does, more so to shut me up than wanting to follow my instructions.
“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Katie glares at me, clearly not amused by my attempt to lighten the mood. “I missed.”
“Try again.”
Her middle finger flips up in front of my face before she turns back to the target. “How do I reload?”
I show her how to reload the gun, ignoring her grunts of protest. “You can pretend it’s my head you’re aiming for if it helps.”
Katie rolls her eyes, reloads the gun and takes aim once more.
“Both eyes open. Don’t drop your arm. And remember to breathe.” Katie takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger, hitting the target dead centre. “See, I told you that you could do it.”
“Shut up,” she mutters, a small smile playing on her lips. “Now, about those knives.”
I quirk an eyebrow and grin down at her. “What kind would you like?”
