Page 29 of The Final Cut

That gets through. Her shoulders lower a fraction.

Ever stands a few feet back, angled so he can see the range and the tree line. Nash is near the door, silent, arms crossed. He should look ridiculous guarding a shooting lesson in the middle of the night while his aunt’s china waits for execution. He doesn’t. He looks like a man preparing to let the woman he loves rage without making it useful to him.

That might be the closest Nash comes to prayer.

Reva raises the gun, a smidge too fast. The barrel wavers.

“Breathe,” I say.

“I am breathing.”

“You’re panting.”

She fires. The shot cracks across the marsh. One plate jumps where the bullet hits the rail beneath it, wobbles, and stays whole.

Reva swears. Homer startles inside and launches off the glass.

I keep my mouth shut.

She fires again—a miss.

Again.

A chip flies from the edge of a plate, barely enough to count, though I’d count it if she asked me what I thought. She doesn’t ask. She lowers the gun, jaw tight, eyes wet with frustration.

“I can’t even do this right.”

I move then.

Slowly enough that she has time to refuse, I step behind her. My hands settle over hers, not taking the gun from her, only lending steadiness where anger has made her body unkind. My chest comes close to her back. Not touching at first. Then she sways, just a little, and I close the distance.

Her breath catches. So does mine.

This is a terrible moment to notice the heat of her through a stolen hospital sweatshirt. I notice anyway. I notice the curve of her shoulder beneath the fabric, the loose strands of hair against her neck, the way she holds herself like she would rather splinter than lean.

“Feet,” I say, voice lower now.

She shifts them.

“Again. Shoulder width. There. Lean forward a little.”

“I know.”

“Your brain knows. Help your body remember.”

Her hands are still shaking. I wrap my fingers around her grip, thumb alongside hers, guiding instead of owning. “You’re yanking because you want the bullet to arrive before the feeling does.”

She goes still.

The words are too close…too much. I feel it in the way her spine tightens against my chest.

I wish I could take them back. I don’t, because they’re true, and she deserves truth from someone tonight.

“Sight,” I murmur. “Front one. Don’t stare at the plate like it owes you blood. Press the trigger. Don’t punish it.”

A rough breath leaves her.

The rubber bands slide against her wrist beneath my hand.