Chapter 13
This does not feel like my uncle.
My hands rest comfortably around Hex’s hard abs, the leather of his jacket warm from mild spring sun shining down on us as we ride. It’s the same jacket he wore that night at the bar. Something about it—maybe the way it clings to his broad frame—feels just as dangerous now as it did then.
We’ve been riding for a bit, pulling into a town not too far from Stillwater Bend, but far enough that I have no clue where we are or what’s about to happen. Hex is impossible to predict. That’s part of the problem… and maybe part of the appeal. He’s in complete control of this situation.
We pull up to a nondescript building, the kind that could be anything: warehouse, mechanic shop, underground fight club. A few cars are parked out front, but nothing about this place gives me a hint as to what awaits us inside.
I climb off the bike, handing him the helmet while I fuss with my hair, trying to smooth out the smashed and windblown strands. Meanwhile, he grabs a backpack from the saddlebag, tossing it over his shoulder, as if we’re off to tackle something important.
I raise a brow. “Okay, if you’re about to lead me into some dark, dangerous place where I have to fight for my life, I’d like to state for the record that my upper body strength is on par with a T-Rex.”
Hex smirks, and my stomach tightens just a little. “Noted.”
He pulls open the door, and before I can step inside, the sound hits me. A sharp pop-pop-pop, then another, louder this time.
I freeze.
Hex just chuckles and nudges me forward. I step in.
Oh. Oh.
A gun range.
I glance across the stalls with people lined up, safety glasses and bulky ear protection on, taking aim at targets I can’t quite see yet. The acrid scent of gunpowder lingers in the air, sharp but not unpleasant.
“I’ve never done this before.”
I’m not opposed to it. I’m kind of excited about it if I’m being honest.
But I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
Hex leans in, his voice low and teasing. “I’m very well-equipped to teach you things you’ve never done before.”
There’s something in the way he says it—so deliberate, so suggestive—that has me clenching my thighs. Great. Just great. Now all I can do is hope these barely-there panties are enough to keep the dampness he caused between my legs from soaking through my jeans and giving me away.
Looking for a way to distract myself, I take in the atmosphere.
Outside of the gunpowder and oil smells, there is a quiet bond between the people here.
People who move with certainty, weapons in hand, as if they’re a natural part of who they are.
The guy at the counter lifts his chin in acknowledgment, eyes locating Hex before offering a nod of respect.
It’s subtle, but I catch it, and it sends a ripple of curiosity through me.
I’ve known men who command attention, but this is something different. It’s earned, not demanded.
Hex removes his leather jacket, revealing an olive-colored T-shirt stretched across those round shoulders and arms that make my fingers itch with entirely too many inappropriate thoughts of touch.
The man is solid, his body a testament to something more resilient than what most of us are made of.
His jeans emphasize thick thighs and the casual confidence in the way he moves.
He pulls a set of ear protectors and safety glasses from his bag, handing them over. “You’ll still hear me. Won’t hear the gunshots.”
We both slip the protection on, and when his voice comes through perfectly clear, I blink. “What kind of witchcraft—”
“Technology.”
I narrow my eyes at his smirk that is quickly becoming a favorite of mine, but he’s already pulling two cases from his bag, setting them on the counter in front of us.
He pops the first one open, revealing a sleek, compact handgun.
“Sig Sauer P365. Good for beginners, easy trigger pull, solid accuracy.” He taps the second case.
“Glock 19. Bit bigger, more control once you get the hang of it.”
I eye both weapons, then him. “You’re assuming I’ll get the hang of it.”
“You will.” There’s no doubt in his voice, just quiet certainty that does something traitorous to my stomach.
He checks the chamber on the Sig, ensuring it’s empty before handing it to me. “We’ll start with the basics.”
I take it slowly, both hands steady but not quite sure.
The grip is colder than I expected and the weight, heavier than it looks.
I shift it in my palm, the metal pressing into my skin, foreign and intimate all at once.
My pulse ticks up. Not from fear exactly.
From the knowing. From what it means to hold power like this.
“Were you in the military?” I ask.
“No.”
I glance up at him, expecting more, but that’s all I get. The pieces are easy enough to fit together, though. The way he handles the gun, the way the guy at the counter acknowledged him—Hex has experience. More than casual. More than just a hobby.
After holding the gun for a little bit and getting more comfortable. I hand it back and he gets it prepped.
“First rule of gun safety: always assume it’s loaded. Never point it at something you don’t intend to destroy. Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”
I nod, absorbing the information. “Got it.”
Hex moves in behind me, his hands settling lightly on my hips before adjusting my stance.
The heat of his palms burns through my jeans, and I catch the scent of him—leather, something clean and sharp, and underneath it all, something purely male that makes my mouth go dry.
Warmth rolls off him, wrapping around me, and suddenly the cold steel in my hands isn’t the biggest threat.
It’s the way my body reacts to his. The way his fingers linger a heartbeat too long.
Focusing on the whole life-or-death weapon thing? Yeah… not exactly top of mind.
He reaches forward, guiding my grip, his chest pressing flush against my back. “Tight, but don’t strangle it. You’re in control, not wrestling it into submission.”
The vibration of his voice travels through me, and I have to bite back a gasp. His hands completely engulf mine, callused fingers sliding over my knuckles as he adjusts my hold. Every point of contact between us feels electric.
I exhale a laugh, then inhale sharply when he nudges my arms into position, the movement bringing his chest flush against my back. “Like this?” My voice comes out breathier than intended.
“Good girl.” His voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my back as much as in my ear protection. “Now keep your eyes on the target.”
Easier said than done when the real source of my attention stands behind me, heat radiating from him as though he's a furnace wearing human skin. Still, I manage to center myself, swallowing past the sudden dryness in my throat.
Hex’s voice drops lower. “Squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it.”
The double meaning isn’t lost on me, and heat pools low in my belly. I take a shaky breath, trying to focus on anything other than how perfectly I fit against him. I line up with the target and pull.
The shot cracks through the space, the power behind it vibrates through me. The kick surprises me, making me stumble back a step. Hex is there, steady hands catching my waist, pulling me against the solid wall of his chest.
For a moment, we’re frozen like that—his arms around me, my back pressed to his front, our breathing in sync.
I tilt my head back to look at him, and something dark flickers in his eyes. His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before rising again.
He leans in, voice smooth and amused. “Not bad.”
I twist my head to look up at him. “I missed completely, didn’t I?”
He bares more teeth than I’ve yet to see, and damn it, a little dimple makes its first appearance. “Maybe.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s already repositioning me, settling his hands over mine to correct my grip. His touch is firm, instructive, but there’s an undertone to it, a subtle tension coiling in the air between us.
As he helps me line up another shot, I glance at him. “You learned all this just because you wanted to?”
His brows dip. “Needed to.”
The weight of that answer catches me. I want to press, but something about his tone makes me hesitate.
I swallow hard, the dryness in my throat scraping like sandpaper.
My eyes drift back to the target, that flimsy paper fluttering paces away.
I picture it solid, three-dimensional, breathing.
A person. Flesh and bone. Someone’s son.
Someone’s friend. Someone who might’ve hurt me or might not have had the chance yet. The image settles heavy in my chest.
I can almost feel the recoil before I even pull the trigger. The sound. The flash. The way it would rip through something real. Someone real.
My grip tightens, but my stomach twists.
“I don’t think I could ever shoot someone,” I murmur, the words tasting like doubt and guilt and something just shy of fear.
Hex is quiet for a long beat. Then, his voice is calm and clear as day in my ear protection. “If someone you love is in danger—if it’s shoot or they get hurt, maybe even die—the choice gets a lot easier.”
A shiver traces down my spine. The way he says it, the certainty, makes me wonder. About his past. About what’s shaped him. If he has made that decision himself.
My eyes narrow, tracing the outline of the target until everything else fades—the other people, the sounds, the gnawing doubt. Just me and the target.
Hex doesn’t step away. He stays close, his chest at my back, steady and solid. His presence threads through me like a second spine, anchoring the nerves that had scattered through my limbs.
Somehow, I stop shaking. I stop thinking.
I think about Sabastian and what I wouldn’t do to assure his complete safety.
I pull the trigger.
And I don’t miss.