Page 339 of Property of Whiskey

“Quit staring.”

“Can’t.”

“You said that earlier.”

“Still true.”

She slides the recoil spring into place and reassembles the weapon with quick, practiced movements. The pieces click together beneath her hands before she checks the chamber and sets the pistol down.

Efficient.

Pretty.

Dangerous.

Mine.

No.

Not mine.

Herself.

That’s the lesson, apparently.

I walk over and lean one hip against the desk. “You scared me today.”

“You said that.”

“Still true.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

She smiles.

I rub a hand over my beard. “I wanted to put you in a car with Mama and Wren.”

“I know.”

“Wanted to lock the fucking doors.”

“I know.”

“Still do.”

Her eyebrows rise. “But?”

There’s that fucking word again.

I look down at the old scratches carved into the booking desk, thinking about handcuffs, basement doors, and every time I told myself I was protecting her when what I really meant was I couldn’t stand not controlling the outcome.

“But loving you ain’t supposed to feel like handcuffs.”

Silence.

Well.