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“There are targets set up over there for you,” Levin says, nodding towards a fence line just past a large shed with several men posted in front of it. “Good luck.”
I’ll need it,I think as I follow Viktor towards the fence, my eyes glued to the dark metal of the gun in his hand.
Viktor stops several paces from the fence, his face cool and expressionless as he holds up the gun. “This is what you’ll learn to use,” he says, letting me look at it. “The safety is still on for now, but I’ll teach you how to take it off quickly and shoot. You’ll need muscle memory for this just as much as hand-to-hand combat. As Levin said, you need to be able to act despite fear.”
I try to focus on what he’s saying, but for some reason, him standing this close to me sends a flush over my skin, reminding me of the dream I’d had, all of the other things that have happened between us. I hadn’t felt this way when Levin was close to me, but now that Viktor is the one standing so near that I could touch him if I wanted to, my heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with my anxiety over using the gun.
“I’ve never done this before,” I tell him quietly, although, of course, he already knows. “I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it.”
“You’ll need to learn to be,” Viktor says matter-of-factly, sliding a clip into the gun to load it. “It could mean the difference between life and death.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something short and bitter about how he’s my husband, how he’s meant to protect me, but I don’t. Partially because something about watching my Bratva husband handling the gun so casually, his handsome face set in stern hard lines, is arousing in a way I wouldn’t have possibly thought it could be.
“This will have some kick to it,” Viktor tells me, moving closer to hand me the gun. He places it in my palm, wrapping my fingers around it, and a shudder runs through me. It feels cold and heavy and deadly in my hand, and I want to hand it back. Just the feeling of it in my hand makes my knees go weak, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
I can’t get out of this, so I have to get through it. Somehow.
“You’ll need to brace yourself,” he continues, “so it doesn’t come back and hit you in the face. We’ll take this slowly at first.”
“Okay.” I lick my dry lips nervously, my heart still racing in my chest. I don’t think I’m going to be good at this. I don’t know if Iwantto be good at this, except for the fact that both Viktor and Levin seem to think that I mightneedto be.
Viktor moves behind me suddenly, and my breath catches in my throat. In the space of a second, I stop thinking about how terrible the gun feels in my hand, how much I want to drop it and wipe my hand off as if I can somehow get the cold feeling to leave my palm. Instead, I’m viscerally aware of how close Viktor is, of his leanly muscled body angled behind me, the warmth of him in the cold air. His hands cover mine, moving the gun, showing me how to hold it, where to put my fingers, and I feel him move closer still, his body touching me. Chest to hips, brushing against my back, my ass, and I can smell him. I can smell the scent of his skin, clean, brisk soap, and some kind of herbal scent in his hair, and it sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the gun in my hands.
“Are you alright?” Viktor asks suddenly, his voice a low rumble next to my ear, and I swallow hard, my heart leaping in my chest at the sudden change in his tone.
“I’m fine,” I manage, my voice shaking a little. “I just—”
“You can do this, Caterina. You’re stronger than you believe.”
I go very still at that. Of all the things I’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. He’d gone in an instant from pushing me past my limits to making me feel cared for again. Supported, even. As if he really were doing this to look out for me and not out of some strange power trip.
“Okay,” I whisper. Another shiver runs through me as his hand leaves mine, brushing past my arm. He doesn’t move away from my body, the heat of him still so close to me that it’s distracting, and part of me hopes that he doesn’t realize how he’s affecting me, how much I want him.
And then there’s another, smaller part of me that wants him to know. That wants him to make me feel beautiful again, desired, the way he did even when I told myself that I didn’t want it.
He can’t possibly want you that way anymore. Not the way you look now, not after all of this.
But the way he’s still standing so close to me, the way his body is touching mine, tells me something different.
It makes my skin feel flushed and hot, making it even harder for me to concentrate on the gun in my hand, on what I’m supposed to do with it next.
“Keep it steady,” Viktor instructs, as if my hand were shaky by choice. “Focus on the target. You’ll inhale and then exhale on the shot as you squeeze the trigger. Brace your feet apart, shoulder-width, that’s right.” For some reason, the approval in his voice makes me feel warm, a small flush of happiness momentarily replacing my anxiety, and when he takes a step back away from me to give me space to take the shot, I instantly miss the feeling of him so close to me, the solidity of it.
My pulse races again as I look at one of the bottles propped up, waiting for me to take the shot.I can do this,I think, even if I don’t really want to. It’s not a matter of if I want to anymore.
Breathe in.I take a deep breath, feeling my finger curl around the trigger. I just have to press down, squeeze a little, and the shot will go off. It’s not a huge thing. Just shooting a bottle. Not a man. Not a real person. Just a bullet and some glass.
Breathe out.I don’t think about it too hard. I press down, squeezing, and the trigger goes down more easily than I’d thought it would.
Too easily, maybe.
The kick startles me, despite Viktor’s warning. Thankfully I’d braced myself well, but the jolt of it still sends me rocking back on my heels, the pistol coming up in my hands dangerously close to my nose. I stop it before I can get hit in the face, and it takes me a moment to re-center myself and actually look towards the bottle I’d just shot at.
The top of it is broken. It’s not exactly a square hit, but it’s something, especially for a first shot.
“You hit it,” Viktor says, and there’s something almost like a hint of pride in his voice. “With practice, you could be a good shot.”
“Thank you.” The response is automatic, even though I don’t know how I actually feel about that. I like being good at things, and the pride in his voice warms something inside of me, but at the same time, this isn’t something that I everwantedto be good at.
