"Get ready," I add. "Wear something comfortable."
She studies me for a second longer. Like she's trying to decide if this is another one of myordersor something else. It's both.
"Ten minutes," I finish before walking out. Because if I stay, I'll start watching her again. And that never ends well.
She's ready in eight. I don't comment on it. Just nod once and motion for her to follow me. We don't need guards for this. Or an entourage. Just us.
Her eyes flick around as we step into the private elevator. She's starting to notice things now. The restricted access. The way doors open without buttons. The quiet authority.
The ride down is smooth. Silent. Longer than it should be. She glances at me once. Twice. But doesn't ask. The doors slide open. Cool air greets us. Concrete. Steel. Controlled. The space is large and underground. Soundproofed. A private shooting range. Only a handful of people know it exists. Even fewer have access to it.
She steps out slowly. Takes it in. Rows of lanes. Targets set at different distances. Weapons secured behind reinforced glass. Clean. Organized. Lethal. Her gaze shifts back to me. Understanding dawning.
"You're teaching me how to shoot," she questions.
I nod. "You want revenge," I tell her simply. She doesn't deny it. "Then you need to stop being a liability."
The words are blunt on purpose. I want her on edge. A flicker of something crosses her face. Not hurt. Not quite anger. Is that… amusement? I step closer. Close enough that she has to tilt her head to look at me.
"You don't freeze," I continue. "You don't hesitate. And you don't miss."
My voice drops. "Because next time, there might not be someone there to pull you out."
I don't rush it. This isn't about speed. It's about control. I unlock the case and reach for something simple. Reliable. A Glock 19. Light enough. The recoil is manageable even for someone like her. Forgiving for someone who's probably never held a gun in her life, aside from that one time she shot me. I turn back to her, holding it low, safe.
"This is what you start with," I tell her.
Her gaze drops to it. Not afraid. Not hesitant. Curious. That… flicker is back. The one that would resemble amusement if I didn't know any better. Like she's humoring me. That shouldn't irritate me. But it does.
I step closer. Close enough to guide. Not close enough to lose control.
"First rule," I place the gun in her hands, adjusting her grip. "You treat every weapon like it's loaded." Her fingers curl around it. Steady. Too steady. "Finger off the trigger," I add, nudging it slightly. "Until you're ready to shoot."
She watches intently and listens without arguing. Simply absorbing what I'm about to teach her. I show her how to check the chamber. How to rack the slide. How to hold it properly. Her stance is off. I fix it. Shift her shoulders. Adjust her arms. She lets me without flinching or leaning away.
Which is a mistake. Because now she'stooclose. Close enough that I catch traces of her, clean, soft scent. Something floral I can't place but immediately want more of. Close enough that a strand of her hair brushes against my wrist when I move. Close enough that if I shift just a fraction more… she'd be in my arms.
My muscles tense.Focus. I adjust her grip again, slower this time. Not because she needs it. Because I do. Because if I don't keep my hands occupied, I'm going to do something I shouldn't. Like kiss her.
Her back is to my chest. Not touching, but it might as well be. The heat radiating off her is like my own personal drug. I can't get enough of it. She tilts her head a fraction, watching what I'm doing. Trusting. Unaware. Or pretending to be. I can't tell. And that's another problem.
"You don't fight the recoil," I advise, my voice sounds rougher than it should. "You control it."
She nods. Like she understands. Like she's done this before. She hasn't. But something in her… gets it. Instinct. Like she didn't just undo my entire train of thought by standing too damn close. I step back. Half a step. Enough to breathe again. Not enough to stop wanting. She lifts the gun. My gun. And something in me shifts. Hard. Immediate. Unexpected. Fuck.
The sight of it in her hands—steady, controlled, like it belongs there—does something to me I wasn't prepared for. At all. I've seen women with guns before. Hell, I've put them there. Taught them. Watched them. It never did a damn thing for me. But her… standing there, shoulders squared, eyes focused, my weapon gripped in those small, steady hands like she was born to hold it… my mind goes to my cock, her hands around it. Fuck, now I'm harder than a rock.
It hits different. Hitswrong. My jaw tightens again. My body follows. A slow, unwelcome reaction that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with instinct. Possession. Power. Her.
I drag a hand over my mouth. Refocus. Force myself to think. To stay where I need to be. Because if I let my mind go where it wants—if I let myself imagine her turning that look on me—Yeah, that's a line I'm not crossing. Not like this.
Her gaze drifts. Past me. To the far end of the case. I follow it. And there it is. A Desert Eagle .50. Heavy. Brutal. Unforgiving. Not a beginner's weapon. Not even close.
"That one," she says, tilting her chin toward it. "Looks bigger."
I huff out a quiet breath. It does. It is.
"That one," I tell her evenly, "will break your wrist if you don't know what you're doing."
