Page 38 of Unholy Tsar

Her eyes wander around the room, taking in the unusual stillness. None of the men are working out now, but there are usually a few of them hitting the punching bags or the weights. Now instead, they just seem to be aimlessly hanging around, avoiding making any eye contact with me. I guide Cecilia to one of the doors and open it, revealing the first private gun range.

I purposely leave the door open so the men can see inside. After all, that’s the main reason I asked them to be here—as witnesses to prove just how… platonic our relationship is.

Cecilia pauses, glancing between me and the men. “Why are you keeping the door open?”

“So they can act as witnesses.”

“Witnesses to what?”

“My honesty.”

She rolls her eyes. “Honesty? What does that even mean?”

“Just that. They’re here to make sure we stay on track.”

A frown creases her forehead.

And then her jaw drops.

“You don’t trust yourself alone with me,” she realizes.

I give her a pointed look, “I think we can both agree on that.”

She grins. The minx, “Even when I’m in this baggy outfit?”

I don’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, I walk into the gun range. She follows me in with a huff, then gasps at the sight of it all.

The walls are painted a sleek gun-metal gray, while the floor is carpeted to muffle sounds. A locked shelf stands against one wall, holding an array of different guns, and next to that, another shelf displays rows of earmuffs and goggles. Directly in front of us, two stalls beckon, and beyond them, some paper targets await.

“Very impressive,” Cecilia murmurs, her tone filled with awe. I make my way to a locker and pull out the wooden pistol stashed inside.

“No way,” Cecilia grumbles when I hand it to her. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Why do you even have that in here?”

“This is what my men use when they first start gun practice. It helps them hone their stance without worrying about recoil or accidental firings—we wouldn’t want a repeat of when you slashed me with that knife the other day. Speaking of that—”

I can see the panic flash in her eyes at the mention of the knife she stole. Thinking on her feet, she rolls her eyes and snatches the wooden gun from me. “Whatever. Let’s just get to it then.”

I sigh. “You’re holding it all wrong, and your stance is terrible.”

“What? No, it’s not. I’ve watched a lot of action movies; this is how the cops hold their guns. And then they go pish pish pish pish—” She bends her knees and turns around, mimic shooting with exaggerated movements.

I resist the urge to facepalm. “Are you going to listen to me, a fucking expert, or are you going to rely on what you thought you saw in some movie?”

She grins cheekily. “Alright, alright. I was just teasing you.”

I take the wooden gun from her and demonstrate. “You hold a pistol in your dominant hand with your middle, ring, and pinky fingers as high on the grip under the trigger as possible. Make sure there’s enough gap between your thumb and index finger on the rear of the slide so it doesn’t hinder the gun’s backward movement when it’s shot.”

Her frown speaks volumes of her confusion. So I explain again, speaking slower and using simpler terms, while also showing her with my own hands. It takes over thirty minutes before she finally starts getting the hang of it.

“I’m holding it! I’m holding it!” she assures me, annoyance mixing with excitement.

“So you are,” I say proudly. “Now, for the stance, you need a steady and firm footing; otherwise, when the gun recoils, you’ll end up on your ass. Stand up straight and face the target squarely with your feet spread shoulder–width apart.”

“Like this?” she asks, trying to copy the stance I described.

“Yes. Now, raise the gun to your eye level and extend both of your arms fully.” I watch closely as she attempts it. She raises the gun and extends her arms, looking determined. “That’s it. Good girl.”

She flushes at my praise. My breath lodges in the back of my throat, and I take a quick step back. “Now, you're ready for a real gun.”