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I spat a curse and thundered toward the front door. I needed some air. I needed to escape her intoxicating scent, a blend of lavender and feminine desire that seemed to cling to me.
When I reached the front hall, I found Rafael waiting for me, his bulky frame propped against the wall. “I’ve asked one of the guards on the perimeter to come watch her for me,” he said. “She in her room?”
I managed a tight nod.
He straightened and clapped me on the back. “I figured you might want a drink.”
“No,” I bit out. “Not right now.” I never drank when I was upset. Only cowards chose to avoid their emotions with alcohol.
My oldest friend’s brows lifted. “That bad, huh?” He was all too familiar with my reasons for disdaining drunkards. His hazel eyes searched my face, and he grimaced. “Okay, let’s go shoot something.”
I nodded again, my teeth grinding too hard to part my jaw and form words. Rafael knew my habits and my vices. Over the years, he’d learned that I’d developed an obsession with guns. Very few things compared to the power trip of mastering lethal weapons. I always felt calmer with a gun in my hand, more in control.
The only better high was taking control of a woman’s body, her pleasure. But touching my pretty young bride had completely fucked with that part of my brain.
Yes, I needed to shoot something. My finger itched for a trigger, and I quickened my steps as I followed Rafael outside. We passed a younger, brawny man on our way out. He tipped his head in deference, and I waved him through the door. The estate guard could watch over my rebellious wife while I got my head straight.
Thankfully, Isabel’s father had a fondness for guns, too, and he’d built a shooting range on their vast property where he could play with his many weapons. That collection belonged to me now. I’d told Isabel that her fortune was her own, and I truly didn’t want or need her money. But she had no use for her old man’s extensive array of firearms. If I could get one good thing out of this fucking marriage, I’d gladly take it.
Rafael and I made our way around the house, following the path to the outbuilding that contained the shooting range by memory; Isabel’s father had brought his guests out to show off his collection at several of their ostentatious parties. I wasn’t entirely familiar with the estate yet, but I’d seen much of it at various events over the years. It would never feel like my own home, but I still had to live here. I’d find the perks where I could.
The outbuilding looked like a small cottage—a miniature complementary style to the enormous Vera mansion. When we stepped inside, the unassuming building resembled a fortress. The front door opened directly into a massive room with scores of assault rifles mounted on dark wood-paneled walls in an aesthetically pleasing arrangement. Glass cases in the center of the room displayed antique weapons, too valuable to ever be fired, if they were even operational anymore. Plush leather armchairs were clustered in one corner next to a small bar, where Isabel’s father had liked to entertain his guests while showing off his collection.
It was fucking idiotic to drink before shooting. It dulled the high.
I’d have the bar removed at some point; I wouldn’t use it, and I could add to the collection with the weapons I already owned if I opened up the extra space.
I crossed to the wall of assault rifles and selected a few options, testing their weight in my hands. Just handling the guns cooled my volatile mood, the knowledge that I held the capacity for lethal firepower calming and centering me. I was safe. I was in control.
Finalizing my selection, I glanced over at Rafael to find that he’d already picked his own weapon—a Colt 1911. He raised his eyebrows at my choice of Barrett REC7 assault rifle, but he said nothing.
That was another perk of shooting to blow off steam: I didn’t have to talk to anyone.
We crossed through the display room and moved into the shooting range itself, which was discreetly located through a wood-paneled door that matched the walls. Once we stepped over the threshold, we entered a concrete space. The cool gray walls soothed my heated nerves.
I grabbed up a set of protective gear—further preventing any conversation—and took position with the target directly in front of me. I was peripherally aware of Rafael doing the same. He didn’t share my particular enthusiasm for guns, but he was a competitive motherfucker, and we’d been competing at everything since we were just kids.
A thrill raced through me at the prospect of besting him, but it quieted as soon as I braced the rifle against my shoulder. Calm settled over me, a silent focus swallowing up all my thoughts, so there was no room in my mind to think or feel anything at all. I pulled the trigger, and the spray of bullets shredded the target. I held the gun steady, mastering its raw power.
