“I’m madforyou, Tristan,” she calls back. “You should want more for yourself.”
There’s a skip in my chest. “I try not to want things. You know that.”
“That’s okay,” she calls back. “I’ll want it for you.” She turns, her ponytail flipping over her shoulder, and picks up her speed down the path. “I’m late for my shift.”
I watch her jog away and I force myself to take a deep breath. This summer has been turned on its head and it hasn’t even started. Watching her run away from me feels wrong, like an ill omen certain to mean things will get worse.
It didn’t occur to me that she’d say no. She’s my person. The only individual in my life who picks me first and always. I think I broke that today. I think, as I watch her disappear into the trees, shoulders set and head down, that I hurt her.
And I don’t entirely know why.
8
KATIE
“Twenty yards,” Nour calls as she sights down the arm holding her service weapon. We’re at an unused corner of the property that I frequently use for target practice. Nour comes here to shoot with me once a week, and then we’ll usually spar in the gym.
“Go.” I give the command into the microphone of the safety headphones.
There’s a muffled pop of bullets, and holes bloom on the target.
“Nice cluster. Looks like an inch or so.”
Nour shrugs and holsters her pistol. “I want fifty yards and half an inch.”
“Of course you do,” I tease.
“Gotta be the best, Katie.”
I know what she means. Nour and I are underestimated at every turn in our jobs, and we need to be better than any man just to get half the respect. Nour even more than me, and especially with the jobs she takes.
I unbuckle my holster and step up to the line we’re using.
I’ve never shot a human. I don’t practice shots to kill. I practice shots to incapacitate. Kneecaps, shoulders, feet.
This is my job.
Most casual shooters at a range go for target practice. They focus on headshots at different distances. They use two hands. That’s well and good.
But if I’m ever in a position to shoot someone, it’s unlikely it will be with both hands. It’s more likely that I’ll be shoving Tristan into a car and covering him or aiming at someone while I can barely see what’s going on.
The thought of the Prince siblings in danger is what keeps me coming back here.
“Go ahead,” Nour says.
I still my breathing, preparing for the startle response that I mimic by jerking my body forward, then drawing and shooting without thinking. Three bullets are out before my vision focuses fully on the target. Target shooters shoot in a circle. Tight. Combat shooters shoot in a spray. Left kneecap, right kneecap, foot, foot, hand, hand. I eject and slap another magazine in, then repeat with my left hand, then again, faster, before I’m out.
I’m breathing hard when I finish, and we both take long, bracing gulps from the water we’ve brought.
“Nour, are you looking for work right now?”
She tips her head. “Why? I mean, yes, but why? You hiring?”
“You’ve seen the videos?”
“The whole world saw the videos.” She grins. “Look for my sister’s application. I told her not to bother with rich guys, but she won’t listen.”
I grin. Nour’s sister is a beauty influencer, and Nour is as protective as a mama bear with her. Has been since theymoved from Beirut when Nour was only ten. There’s no way she’d let her near Tristan.
