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Stalking into the armory, I head straight for the display case of weapons. I look at the wide variety of guns, and for a moment, I feel lost because I don’t know which one to pick.
“Have you booked a training session?” a man asks. I’d guess him to be in his late fifties, and he has a professional air around him as if he’s selling tailored suits instead of teaching people how to kill.
I shake my head. “I didn’t have time. I only arrived yesterday.”
“I’m Instructor Grigory,” he introduces himself.
“Abbie Sartori.” I point at a gun that doesn’t look too heavy. “Can I use the shooting range?”
“I expect you to make an appointment for private lessons.”
My eyes snap to his and lifting my chin, I say, “I’m not asking for a lesson. Just give me a loaded gun, and I’ll figure it out myself.”
“Give Miss Sartori a Heckler and Koch, Grigory,” Nikolai’s voice suddenly sounds up behind me.
Not thinking, I quickly move to the side, so my back isn’t to him. The moment our eyes lock, the anger in my chest flares to inferno level.
Bastard.
Because of him, it looks like Aurora ran face-first into a brick wall.
Instructor Grigory removes a gun from the display case and puts a full clip into it. When he holds the weapon out to me, I almost hesitate. I take it from him, surprised by how heavy it is.
Ignoring Nikolai, I walk to where the shooting range is, and moving down the lane where the stalls are, I glance at the targets.
Shit, they’re far.
I pick a stall in the middle and glance down at the counter that’s nothing more than a slab of steel with two buttons. A set of earmuffs hangs on a hook against the side panel.
I feel Nikolai before I hear his soft footsteps and glare over my shoulder. “Can I help you, Mr. Vetrov?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. “No.”
Our eyes lock for a second, but his dark brown ones are too intense to look into for long, so I let out a huff as I turn my attention back to the weapon in my hand.
How the hell does this thing work?
Raising my arms, I hold the gun like I’ve seen my bodyguards do, but nothing happens when I pull the trigger.
“Take the safety off,” Nikolai mutters, amusement lacing his words.
The asshole is loving this.
Clenching my jaw, I inspect the gun, and finding a tiny latch, I flick it to the side. I point the barrel at the target, and this time when I pull the trigger, the bang is so loud I let out a startled shriek. The weapon jerks hard in my hands, and I drop it on the steel counter as I stagger a step back.
Jesus. This is harder than it looks.
A muscled arm reaches past me to take hold of the earmuffs, and for a moment, Nikolai’s solid chest presses against my back. My stomach freefalls before it soars to the highest heavens from the close proximity.
My head turns fast, and as Nikolai pulls back, our eyes meet. There’s a smirk curving his lips, then the earmuffs are shoved against my chest.
“Put them on,” he instructs with a tone that tells me he’s used to handing out orders and never hearing the word ‘no.’
I take the earmuffs from him, and pulling them over my ears, I step forward and pick up the gun again.
This time I know to expect the recoil, and when I pull the trigger, I clench my jaw so I don’t shriek like a banshee.
I swear the man is testing my last nerve because he pulls the one earmuff away and says, “The goal is to hit the target.”
