Page 109 of A Requiem of Fire and Ice

“To make this fair, pick what you want, and I will match it,” Prince Reen says, earning me a sly smile.

I roll my eyes toward the Glock. The very first gun Dad let me hold, and I trained with it as if it were a part of me I couldn’t grasp but also couldn’t let go of. If I want to win, I should grab the Glock. But the memories of shooting, bullet after bullet, at the enemies’ heads after they touched⁠—

I swallow the bile stinging in my throat and grab the Beretta M9. Prince Reen does the same, already sliding the bullets into the chamber that the man hands him. I stand where the man gestures and awkwardly grip the Beretta.

“Ready?” Prince Reen asks.

I smirk. “Always.”

Prince Reen pulls the trigger. The sound of the bullet leaving the chamber echoes through the gun range, and if it weren’t for being around loud noises my entire life and hearing the sound before sinking it into someone’s head, it would have stung my ears.

When he finishes, he looks at me with a crooked smile and an arched brow. Irritated by his cockiness, I raise my arms and aim at the paper cutout. My finger moves and slides across the trigger, and when I squeeze, there’s weird tension I’m not used to. The bullet leaves the chamber, sinking into the corner of the cutout man.

Prince Reen chuckles. “I may allow guns into our fight. That shot on me must have been a fluke.”

“Shut up,” I groan.

I fire again, but my steady heartbeat thumps, loud and erratic, as if I have no control over my body. It frustrates me, and I let out another round, but it’s like I am deliberately missing so Prince Reen can win.

Why?

“Fuck,” I mutter.

Heat suddenly presses against my back. As I turn, my body moves into fight mode, Prince Reen’s hands grab mine, and he pushes up against me like he’s stone. Every fibre of hair on my body stands on edge, but it’s not out of fear. His touch on me electrifies me like static.

Hot breath breathes down my face, daringly close to my ear. “You've never used a Beretta before, have you?”

I shift my stance and feel him against me, earning another flutter in my chest. “No,” I grumble.

He raises his hands with mine until our arms lock, aiming at the cutout. “A Beretta has a larger magazine size, so the weight may feel off for you if you were trained with Glocks your entire life.”

“I shot…never mind.”

He sighs, and the brush of heat tickles against my face. “Yes. I am aware you used a different gun for King Ragan, but unlike here, where you feel the pressure, I believe in that situation, shooting came naturally to you because you weren’t overthinking it.”

“Okay, so teach me,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

His hands move away from mine, and the warmth he brings shouldn’t make me feel anything but discomfort. Whenever Xavier touched me, sweat poured off me, inflaming my body until red blotches pricked across my skin.

But with Prince Reen, a shudder of delight moves through me until I ache. It’s distracting. I should focus on what he’s teaching me, but he’s too close, confusing me with what I am supposed to feel for him.

“Pandora, focus,” he says.

“You make it hard,” I say through clenched teeth.

A dark, humorous, breathy laugh tickles my ear. “How so?”

I roll my shoulders and straighten up, and when Prince Reen takes a step away from me, I breathe easier. With every breath of clear air, I focus on the weight, adjust my aim, and pull the trigger. It sinks into the forehead of the paper cutout.

“Good,” Prince Reen says. “Can we start the game, or do you need a bigger handicap?”

I glower at the paper cutout. “Where do I shoot?”

“Head, chest and neck,” he says. “Whoever misses loses.”

He goes first, which becomes my handicap because if he misses, he loses. I silently beg that he does, but then I’m curious about what he would make me do if I win. My brain comes up empty, but I bet he already has something in mind.

Of course, he aims at the head, chest, and neck with perfect precision, which causes me to be more on edge with the prospect of failing. Pulling the trigger, my heart clenches with worry, even when I don’t miss. There’s too much anxiety. My hands shake, and after the fourth round, where Prince Reen’s cool as a fucking cucumber, I graze the neck.