She moans softly, turning away from me and burying her face deeper into the pillow.
I nudge her again, a little firmer. “Wake up, baby.”
Her eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep. She blinks at me, confused. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“No,” I say, keeping my voice low. “We need to get going. Get dressed.”
She sits up slowly, the sheet pooling around her waist, exposing her full breasts and rubs her eyes. “Where are we going?”
“I’m going to teach you how to shoot.”
She stares at me for a second, still dazed, then her eyes widen as the words sink in. “Oh.”
She doesn’t argue. She slides out of bed, naked and beautiful, and moves toward the closet. I watch her for a moment, then turn away to finish getting ready.
I already have the gun, the one Irina gave her. Last night, when I returned from the meeting with her brothers, the housekeeper had approached me with it, saying the maids found it while cleaning her old bedroom after moving the rest of her things.
I knew immediately it was hers. She’d been hiding it. I don’t feel bad that she felt she needed a gun. Given her background with that bastard of a father, it makes sense she’d want protection.
What bothers me is that she thought she might need it against me. That she didn’t trust me enough to tell me.
But I understand. She doesn’t know me yet. She only knows the version of me who took her from her life and forced her into this marriage.
She doesn’t know I’m nothing like her father. She doesn’t know I would burn the world down before I ever raised a hand to her.
That’s why I’m doing this. I’m going to teach her how to defend herself. Not just from me, but from anyone. So she doesn't ever have to feel helpless.
A few minutes later, Calina steps out of the walk-in closet dressed for the range.
She’s wearing a simple black tank top that clings to her curves and a pair of tight dark jeans that hug her hips and thighs. Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face.
She looks athletic, and so fucking beautiful it takes everything in me not to drag her back to bed and rip those clothes off.
I want to bury myself inside her again. I want to hear her moan my name while I fuck her slow and deep this time.
But last night I was rough. I let myself go completely. Even though she assured me she liked it, I know she might still be sore. I need to give her time to heal. I need to be more careful next time not to let myself go.
So instead, I take her hand, threading my fingers through hers. “Let’s go.”
We head downstairs. The house is quiet. I gave the entire staff the day off. If that traitor is working with Adrian, they might try to meet today.
We walk out to the far end of the property where the private shooting range is set up. The sky is just beginning to brighten, soft orange and pink hues stretching across the horizon.
The range is simple but professional, covered lanes, targets at various distances, and plenty of space.
I position her in front of one of the stations and hand her the gun she tried to hide from me.
“First, stance,” I say, stepping behind her. I place my hands on her hips, adjusting her posture. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. Lean forward just a little.”
She follows my instructions, but I can feel the tension in her body. Every time my hands touch her on her waist, her arms, her shoulders, I feel that familiar spark. She does too.
I can hear the way her breathing changes when I press against her back to correct her grip.
“Both hands on the gun,” I murmur close to her ear.“Relax your shoulders. Look down the sight. Breathe out when you squeeze the trigger.”
She fires. The shot goes wide, missing the target by a good margin.
“Again,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “You’re thinking too much. Trust your body.”
