Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
HAYAMI
PRESENT
The garage is grey and cold, not a place I would normally wish to hang around, but shortly after getting up this morning, Fenrir informed me that today was to be my first shooting lesson.
I’ve no doubt this won’t be my calling in life.
I’ve never had the desire to handle a gun, and if I’m honest, I despise them.
But if it puts his mind at rest that my safety isn’t just in his hands, then I’ll happily oblige.
After all, I’m the one who sent Willa away and left Fenrir as a solo operative.
Yet, he’s the reason I’m here in the first place. I can’t help this thought overriding everything—his culpability in all of this. But then all I have to do is look at his face to remember why he did what he did. Why he felt the need to avenge his family.
A text arrived from Willa in the early hours of the morning, informing me that she’d made it to Marta, who cried when she saw her.
They’re still monitoring Marta and the baby, and I reassured Willa that they’re all in the right place if they need to take action.
She sent me a heart emoji and said she’d keep me updated.
“Have you spoken to Markus?” I ask Fenrir as he stacks boxes of varying heights at one end of the garage, then places disposable cups he found in the kitchen on top of the boxes.
“Yes.” The one-word beast is back; last night’s runaway tongue has been locked up. I blame the whisky.
“What have you told him?”
“As little as possible.”
“Are they any closer to settling this war?”
“Markus just said they were making progress, but fuck knows what that means.”
Wiping his hands down the front of his pants, Fenrir makes his way over to me. He looks the figure of fucking finery today in his black combat trousers and skintight black T-shirt. It’s impossible not to blush.
He pulls a gun from the back of his waistband and holds it out to me. There’s a second when I imagine what these hands have done, how he’s taken lives with the curl of his fists and the pull of a trigger. How dangerous he can be. Is. Yet, I don’t feel scared. I’ve never been afraid of him.
He must see the surprise on my face, as he thrusts it forwards and says, “It’s not going to bite you.”
“Yeah, but I might shoot your foot by accident.”
“Not with the safety on.”
I smile and take the gun from him.
It feels strange, like I’m not meant to be holding something like this, something that can take a life so easily.
“It’s lighter than I thought it’d be,” I say, turning the weapon over.
“Weight, ease of use, compactness,” he says. “Guns have come a long way. But I don’t want you to think about the gun.” He takes a step back.
I’m not thinking about the gun. I’m thinking about him, the soldier, the Hellhound, the killer. He looks all those things today and more.
“There’s a ton of things to learn about firing a gun, but I’m going to focus on the basics.
The first is stance. I’m looking for power.
Something that’ll anchor you to the ground.
The best for shooting is a fighter posture.
Think boxing.” He steps closer and points at my feet, telling me where to put them before reaching for my waist, but then he stops and looks at me.
“Can I…?” I presume he’s asking if he can touch me, which feels strange, as he’s put his hands upon me many times before. But that was always in the line of duty. This is different.
“Sure.” I shrug, trying to give off an air of nonchalance when inside I feel nothing of the sort.
As he slips his hand around my waist and twists my pelvis into a forty-five-degree angle, I try not to think about his hands on my body, the command of his words, and our proximity. This is serious stuff, and I want to learn. This shit could save my life.
“You’re right-handed, so your left leg needs to be forwards and your right leg slightly back.
That way, you have balance both front and back.
See?” He moves my legs, then pushes me forwards and then back, showing me how grounded I am now that I’m standing in the correct position.
“Good,” he says, and my insides unfurl, wanting him to add a “girl” on the end, before reminding myself this isn’t one of my smutty books.
“Now we need to look at your grip,” he says, and I gulp. “The way you hold a gun depends on what type you’re firing. For now, I just want you to grip it as tightly as you can. Firearms are powerful. They kick. They jump. So you need to hold it like you’re never going to let it go. Let me see.”
I raise the weapon and grasp it like he just said. I feel stupid, but he nods, seemingly impressed so far.
“The next is sight. There’s front and back. You can’t focus on both sights and the target, so for now, I just want you to concentrate on the front sight. Here, let me show you.” He takes my hand and pulls it level with my eyes as he slides his body snugly against mine.
He’s so warm, the heat from his skin making my hands sweat, and I worry I’m going to lose my grip on the gun.
“Okay, look here.” He taps the front sight, and I focus on it. “And last is the trigger.”
“I know this,” I jump in, having read about this technique in crime books. “You have to squeeze it.”
“Yeah, or I prefer to imagine rolling it. If you roll the trigger, it usually means the force will be consistent, smooth, and unified. You don’t want to be surprised by the shot.
” He tucks himself in behind me, his breath on the back of my neck, and I tell myself to keep looking at the front sight and not think about how close he is or how much I want him to touch me.
“I’m going to take the safety off, and then you’re going to line up the gun with the first target.” He nods to the upturned box and the plastic cup sitting on top of it.
Wrapping his arms around my body, he pulls at the top of the gun, and it clicks. My mind is panting, yet I will myself to focus on the target.
“Okay, now line up the front sight with the middle of the cup.” His voice is like the whisky running down the back of my throat, sending heat travelling right to my core.
Placing his hands over mine, he grips the gun with me, and I want to melt. His body feels hard behind me, like it’s holding me in place, and I try not to think about what it’d be like to feel his arousal against me.
Trying to fish my mind out of the gutter, I concentrate on the target and the gun.
“Okay.” He loosens his grip on my hands but doesn’t pull them away completely. “Now roll the trigger and don’t close your eyes.”
Taking a deep breath, I pull the trigger.
It’s like taking a punch. The kick of the gun has me reeling back on my heels, straight into the front of Fenrir.
I’d kidded myself that maybe he was standing behind me just as an excuse to get close to me, but now I realise he’d been supporting me, as even with his instruction on my stance, there was no way I wouldn’t have fallen backwards from the force.
“Okay, I was not prepared for that,” I tell him as he lowers his arms, and I lower the gun.
“You’ll get used to it.” Fenrir steps to the side. “You did good.”
“I didn’t hit the cup.” I nod at the box that took the hit.
“I didn’t expect you to. But you will. With practice.”
And this is what we do for the rest of the morning, until eventually, I hit the goddamn cup. It feels like I’ve won the lottery.
“Yes!” I shout, punching the air and jumping on the spot.
“Great job.” Fenrir smiles, which only adds to my joy.
“It only took me eight hundred tries.” I laugh as he smirks.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’ve done great. You’ve never even held a gun before today.”
I can’t help my smile spreading, and I’m about to hand him back the gun, but then I pause.
“Your turn,” I say, holding the gun out to him with the barrel pointing at the floor.
He dips his head. “I don’t need to practice.”
“No, but I want to see how it’s supposed to be done.”
“I’m not a great role model,” he says in a low voice that makes my insides tremble.
“Do as I say and not as I do?” I arch one eyebrow.
“Something like that.”
I push the gun at him. “Please, for me. Just one shot.”
Slowly, he takes the gun from my hand and stares at me before turning his attention to the remaining cup on the highest box.
He doesn’t falter, doesn’t hesitate. He just raises his arm, the gun an extension as he fires at the target, and the cup flies off the box.
Tipping my head to the side, I say, “Well, your stance was a little off, and I don’t think you rolled the trigger, but it wasn’t bad.”
He smiles and turns the safety back on before sliding the gun into the back of his waistband. “You have to learn the rules before you can break them.” His eyes remain on me. “Like I said, not a good role model.”
We make our way back into the house as I remind myself that he’s my bodyguard, here to do a job, and I can’t let any attraction I may feel get in the way of that.
One thing’s certain: I felt things I usually only experience when reading my smutty romance books when Fenrir stood behind me, holding my arms, his breath licking my skin.
I felt things that I never have with any other man before today.
After everything he’s told me, after everything he’s done, after knowing what kind of man he is, I still feel this bewildering attraction to him. But what is he?
A scarred beast or a broken human?
Or maybe he’s both?