Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 170747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 683(@250wpm)___ 569(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 683(@250wpm)___ 569(@300wpm)
“Ah, avecita, you continue to surprise me.”
I look up at him beneath my lashes and his eyes flash with something dark, something I recognize all too well: desire. I’m not sure if it’s unnerving or reassuring that he finally seems…human. “You said you’d teach me to shoot.”
He places the coffee down, and pulls a gun from a chest holster, placing it on the counter in front of him.
“No guns on the table!” Maria flicks him with a dishcloth, and he rolls his eyes before standing and walking to the door, gun in hand, oozing that casual power with every step. Even if I didn’t know who Rafael was, I’d guess he was important just from the way he moves.
He walks away and I hop off the bar stool, hurrying to follow. Men move out of his way, murmuring greetings as he passes them. No one pays me any attention as we leave the house, walking out into the gardens. Beyond the tall, perfectly cropped hedges, there’s a building. It looks like a barn, with wooden sides, and a corrugated metal roof. Rafael grabs the handle of one of the enormous doors and slides it along its runners. He moves to the side, and I hear the click of several switches, eliciting a low buzz as a row of lights thrum to life above us. Holy shit. It’s like some kind of weapons vault in here. Along the right-hand side are cages filled with racks of rifles and handguns.
“You have enough for an army,” I breathe.
He unlocks a cage and takes out a rifle, snapping something on it into place before offering it to me. “Exactly.”
I carefully take it, wrapping my fingers around the cool metal of the barrel. A knowing smile crosses his face as his fingers brush mine. He points to the far end of the barn, and I look up at a target shaped like a person. He presses a button on a remote and ttarget glides closer until I can see the bull’s eye printed on it.
“Well, go on,” he says with a flourish of his hand. I take a shaky breath and raise the gun. “Stop.” I freeze, and he moves closer, repositioning my hands on the gun. “Place the butt to your shoulder. Focus down the sights.” I do as he says, and he positions himself behind me, around me. I’m reminded of the room of death in his basement, the way his body held mine as I shot a man. I wait for a sense of fear or disgust to rear its head, but it never comes. My heart pitter-patters a curious tune, tentative and anxious, yet wanting.
Calloused fingers slide over my own. “Flick the safety off.” His voice is a low rumble that sends warm air rushing over my neck, and I involuntarily tilt my head to the side. His thumb moves the small switch beneath mine. “Take a deep breath.” The words send goosebumps racing down my arms. His lips brush the point just below my ear. “Focus on the target. Then exhale and pull the trigger.” He pulls away, and I feel suddenly cold without his touch. I never thought I would think that about any man. Pulling myself together, I focus, staring down the sight at the target in front of me. I exhale a long breath and pull the trigger. The gun explodes, sending a jolt into my shoulder and making my ears ring. I lower it and look at the target. There’s a neat hole to the left-hand side on the outer ring of the bull’s eye.
“Good.” He takes his gun from the holster at his chest and hands it to me, taking the rifle. “Now this one.” I stare at him for a second. “Rifles are easier but harder to carry,” he explains. “Stand like this.” He grabs my hips and maneuvers me until my back is pressed to his chest again. A fissure of unease attempts to rise but his thumb strokes soothing circles over my hip almost absentmindedly as he speaks. “Now, this is harder because the gun has more kickback. Don’t fight it.” He pulls both my arms up in front of me. “Both hands, like this. Take the safety off, and then do the same as before. Breath in, out, then pull the trigger.”
I do as he says and the loud bang echoes around the barn deafeningly. This time the bullet careens off, hitting the wall somewhere behind with a spark of metal. “What…”
“You fought it,” he says. “Some things, Anna, are too forceful. You can’t fight it. You can only accept it and adjust accordingly.” I’m not sure we’re talking about shooting anymore.
I swallow hard, glancing over my shoulder at him. “How do I adjust?”
He sweeps a strand of my hair away from my face. “You predict the outcome.”