Page 49 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

“Arrogant Mafia man,” she mutters under her breath.

She hesitates, then slowly slides her fingers under the walnut grip, lifting the weapon from the velvet. She holds it with surprisingly good form, her finger resting straight along the frame, not touching the trigger. She checks the weight, her wrist steady.

"It’s light," she murmurs, her thumb naturally sliding over the manual safety. "It fits."

"It’s yours," I say. "But you don't use it until I teach you how to shoot it. We’re going to the range."

She looks up at me, her hazel eyes bright with a mixture of bewilderment and a sudden, quiet spark of interest. "You're a very strange man, Ilya."

"Get your shoes," I grunt, turning toward the door.

The indoor shooting range is located in the cellar beneath the east wing, a long, concrete tunnel insulated with heavy acoustic foam and lined with steel targets. The air is cool, smelling of ozone, lead, and the sharp, chemical scent of gun oil.

Via stands at the firing line, wearing a pair of yellow-tinted safety glasses and heavy black earmuffs that make her head look impossibly small. She’s holding the Sig Sauer with both hands, her posture stiff as she stares down the fifty-foot lane at the paper silhouette target.

I stand behind her, my arms crossed, watching her stance. She’s leaning back, her weight on her heels, her shoulders hunched.

"You're going to fall over," I say, my voice carrying over the low hum of the ventilation fan.

She doesn't lower the gun. "I’m perfectly balanced, Ilya. My father’s instructors told me my stance was excellent."

"Your father’s instructors were trying to keep from getting shot by your father," I say, stepping into her space.

I close the distance between us, my chest pressing directly against her back. The sudden, intense heat of her body instantly cuts through the cool air of the range, her vanilla scent filling my lungs. I reach out, my large hands wrapping over hers, my callused fingers completely covering her smaller ones on the walnut grip.

She flinches slightly at the contact, her back arching, her hips pressing back against my groin. I can feel the sudden, rapid flutter of her pulse under her skin, her breath coming in short, shallow hitches.

"Leaning forward," I whisper, my mouth inches from her ear, my warm breath fanning across her neck. "Your weight needs to be on the balls of your feet. Drive your shoulders down. Don't hunch them."

I shift my weight, my thigh sliding between hers to force her legs slightly wider, establishing a solid, grounded base. The physical contact is electric, the heavy friction of our clothes rubbing together as I align her hips with mine. She is completely trapped between my body and the firing line, her bare neck exposed to my mouth.

"Like this?" Her voice is a breathless thread, her hands shaking slightly under mine.

"Yes," I rasp, my grip on her hands tightening, guiding her arms straight out. "Keep your wrists locked. The titanium frame is light, but the recoil will push the muzzle up if you don't control the snap. Don't fight the gun. Let your body absorb the shock."

"I'm ready," she whispers.

I reach up, sliding her earmuffs down over her ears, before pulling my own down. I stay wrapped around her, my chest a solid wall against her back, my hands still covering hers on the weapon.

"Slide the safety off," I direct, my thumb guiding her smaller one to click the brass lever down.

She takes a deep breath, her chest expanding against mine, her finger slowly sliding onto the cold steel of the trigger.

"Focus on the front sight," I whisper, my chin resting on her shoulder, our heads aligned as we both look down the dark tunnel at the target. "Smooth press. Don't jerk it."

Bang.

The sound is a sharp, concussive slap that vibrates through my bones, the bright flash of the muzzle lighting up the concrete walls for a fraction of a second. The recoil kicks back, a sudden, violent jolt that drives her shoulders straight into my chest. But I don't let her stumble. I hold her steady, my body absorbing the shock of the snap, my hands keeping her wrists locked.

The paper target down the lane has a neat, clean hole right in the center of the chest.

"You hit the lung," I murmur, sliding her earmuffs up slightly so she can hear me.

She lets out a long, shaky breath, her body relaxing against mine, her head tossing back to look up at me. Her hazel eyes are wide, glassy, and completely dark with a sudden, hot rush of adrenaline. Her lips are parted, her skin flushed and warm.

"I wanted the heart," she says, a small, sassy spark returning to her voice despite the trembling in her hands.

"You'll get the heart next time," I rasp, my hand sliding from her wrist down to her waist, my fingers digging into the soft wool of her sweater.