Page 29

When I get to the range’s outer salesroom, Isaac’s showing Peter some new handguns from the display case. And at the far wall filled with AKs, Cora’s twirling a rifle like it’s a goddamn baton. Gus stands guard by the door to the range itself, arms crossed and scowling.

All four of them turn to me when I enter. They make up a tiny set within the amount of people who rely on me. People with names, skills, weaknesses, needs, all of which I’m supposed to keep track of.

It’s enough to overwhelm anyone. But I’m better than just anyone, I have to be. The people I’m responsible for are the foundation of my empire.

I try to think about them the way Brady wants me to. Not as humans, but shades of color on a spreadsheet. Cora, clear. Gus, clear. Peter, clear. Isaac, orange.

The range’s manager gives me a respectful nod. But so would a traitor. Isaac confirms that he’s emptied the range every time Brioni’s come this week. And when I look to Gus to verify this, he gives me a curt nod.

So Isaac can do as instructed and tell the truth about it. The bare minimum. In my gut, I trust that he’s loyal. But in my mind, I keep his name brightly highlighted.

Gus holds the range’s door open for me, and I dismiss him for the day. I’m Brioni’s guard now.

I want to dismiss Peter as well. He should be getting back to the recruits. But I assume he’s here because Brady assigned him to guard Cora. Which means my brother trusts Peter more than he lets on. It’s a good thing, but eliminating suspects isn’t enough. We need to actually find the fucking rat.

I shake my head clear and stride to the far end of the range. It’s eerily silent, no popcorn firing or voices shouting to be heard over ear protection. It would be unsettling, but the growing smell of propellant fills my lungs with anticipation. Gunfire. Violence.

And in my private booth, Brioni.

With her earmuffs on, she doesn’t notice my approach, too busy practicing loading and unloading her gun. She’s gotten fast. It’s not violence, not exactly, but it’s a precursor. Another step deeper into my dark world.

She wasn’t on Brady’s color-coded list, I realize. If she were, she’d be purest white, so innocent I shouldn’t be corrupting her like this. It’s for her safety, I remind myself. It just so happens to also be hot as fuck. The unexpectedness of my gentle Brioni with a deadly weapon makes my head spin with lust. I lean against the wall to watch her for a while, admiring her dedication. Her speed. Her firm ass in those yoga pants.

When she catches sight of me, she startles, her eyes wide and her pink mouth open. I hold still. Same as I did when I caught her touching herself. As much as I want to take her immediately, I’m following her lead. I’m in control of myself. But it doesn’t help that she’s sexy as hell in her shooting glasses.

Carefully, she sets her unloaded gun on the shelf, then lowers her ear protection to settle around her slim neck.

“Hi.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s shy. It’s an improvement from embarrassment.

“Hi,” I echo. I’m the leader of dozens of men, and yet I’ll follow her without question. She swallows, her throat bobbing between the black earmuffs.

“I have something to show you.” She turns away from me, the same way she’s been avoiding my gaze these past couple mornings.

But then she looks over her shoulder. She locks her wholesome brown eyes onto mine, and for a moment, neither of us blinks. The concrete floor lurches beneath my feet. Since the day she agreed to be my fiancée, things have shifted between us. Sometimes by inches, sometimes by earthquakes.

This one’s the latter. The kind of quake that forms a mountain, both of us at the very top, the air so thin I can barely breathe.

She glances away first. But it’s only to look pointedly at the wall, where the spare shooting glasses and ear protection are hanging. I almost laugh. She’s always been a safety-first kind of girl. I swear half the scissors in her house are safety blades that don’t cut shit. And that subtle cue of hers has reminded me that whatever’s changed between us, she’s still undeniably Brioni.

When I’m ready, she claps her own earmuffs back on, then turns to face the range. But instead of reaching for her gun, she takes a moment. I recognize her get-focused routine from cross-country: shaking out her shoulders, tilting her head to the right to crack her neck, straightening her spine. A pause of stillness. Then she’s ready.

She grabs her gun from the shelf and loads fifteen rounds in as many seconds. Then she’s in the firing stance before I can blink, her form flawless. Fifteen shots ring out in quick succession. At the end of the range, her paper target flinches and jerks.

When she’s done, Brioni flicks on the safety. She rests her gun on the shelf, but I can’t stop picturing her holding it, gripping it perfectly. Firing it with practiced confidence. I’ve seen a woman fire a gun before, but it’s never been as sexy as this. There’s something about my Brioni choosing this descent toward violence, excelling at it, that makes my cock throb for her.

While she has her back to me, I adjust myself in my pants, resisting every urge coursing through my body. I hang up my eye and ear protection for something to do, anything to distract me. Brioni toggles the switch to bring back her target, her shoulders bunched with anticipation. As I wait with her, my pure need rattles against the cage of my control.

Her paper target reaches the front of its track, but it keeps swaying, the bullet holes hard to discern. When Brioni doesn’t reach for it, I automatically step forward to steady it.

It’s the wrong move.

I’m too close to Brioni. She’s between me and the front shelf, my body behind hers. And though I’m not touching her, with my arm stretched out to hold the target, I’m less than an inch away.

We stand frozen for one second. Two. We’re so close I can smell her shampoo, her sweat, the propellant from her gun. An intoxicating combination. I wait for her to move first, but fuck me, it’s a struggle. Three seconds. Four. Then, finally, she tilts her head up toward the target. When she sees the single bullet hole in the 8-ring, her posture slumps. But the rest of her shots are 9s and 10s, the center X completely obliterated.

My chest fills with pride. My Brioni’s incredible at this. Only a few days of practice, and she’s exceeding anything I could’ve expected of her.

Still, she sets down her earmuffs and glasses on the hip-height shelf, sagging as if disappointed in herself. My heart sinks for her—I can’t let her feel this way. Even if it means breaking our silence.