20. Cora
20
CORA
T he shooting range is buried deep beneath the mansion, past a maze of steel-reinforced doors.
The moment I step inside, the smell of gunpowder and oil fills my lungs. The walls are lined with racks of weapons—handguns, rifles, even a few knives gleaming under the overhead fluorescent lights.
I shiver, but not from the cool temperature.
Ivan methodically checks the magazine of a sleek black handgun. His movements are effortless. There’s no hesitation in the way his fingers glide over the weapon, no wasted effort.
I’ve seen him kill before. I know exactly what those hands are capable of.
He holds out the gun, grip first. I take it carefully, the metal heavy in my hands.
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel his body heat at my back. His arms slide around me, and before I can react, his hands are on mine, adjusting my grip. His touch is firm, impersonal—but it lingers a fraction of a second too long.
“Your stance is wrong.” His voice is quiet, edged with something rough. “Feet apart. Knees slightly bent.”
“Managed to kill a few people, didn’t I?”
“Got lucky. Focus.”
I shift, and his hands guide me, one settling on my waist, steadying me. I stiffen.
He doesn’t pull away.
Instead, he leans down, his breath brushing against my ear. “If you ever need to defend yourself, you don’t hesitate.” His fingers press lightly against my back, urging me to straighten my spine. “Hesitation means death. You shoot to kill. Every time.”
A shiver runs down my arms.
A simple paper silhouette at the end of the range. Unmoving. Harmless. But in my mind, I replace it with something else. Someone else.
Darren.
The thought burns through me like gasoline.
I square my shoulders, inhale sharply, and pull the trigger.
The gun kicks back hard against my hands, jolting me.
“Again,” he orders.
I grit my teeth and fire again. The recoil still stings, but this time, I brace for it.
Again.
Again.
My arms shake from the force, my breath coming harder now, but something inside me is shifting. I keep firing until the magazine clicks empty, until the sound of the shots stops ringing in my ears.
Silence settles over us.
Then—
“Good girl.”
His voice is approving.
I turn my head slightly, meeting his gaze. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something dark and knowing.
A sudden wave of dizziness washes over me. My knees wobble. I blink rapidly, trying to focus, but the edges of my vision blur.
Ivan notices instantly.
His hand is at my waist in an instant, gripping tightly, holding me upright. “Cora.”
“I’m fine,” I murmur, but my body betrays me, leaning into him.
“You’re not.” His voice is sharp, but not unkind. He curses under his breath, then scoops me up before I can protest.
“Ivan—”
“Shut up.”
His arms are solid around me, unyielding as he carries me out of the range, through the halls, and straight into the kitchen.
He kicks the massive fridge open with his foot, scanning the contents with a scowl. “Pick something.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“To eat,” he says impatiently. “Or I’ll order something.”
I stare at him, still a little lightheaded but suddenly overwhelmed by how casual he’s being. Like this isn’t the most absurdly intimate thing he’s ever done.
I shift in his arms slightly. “Put me down first.”
He hesitates, then reluctantly sets me on my feet but stays close, his arms still hovering like he doesn’t trust me to stay upright.
I step forward, pull open the fridge, and glance at him over my shoulder. “You pick.”
His brow furrows. “Why?”
I hesitate, then give him a small, tired smile. “Because I trust you.”
Something flickers in his expression. His jaw tightens, his eyes darkening. Then, after a long pause, he grabs a container from the fridge and sets it on the counter.
I exhale, stepping toward him. Before I can second-guess myself, I wrap my arms around his waist and press my forehead lightly against his chest.
He goes completely still.
For a moment, he doesn’t react at all. Then his hands hover near my shoulders, like he’s debating whether to push me away.
“What’s that for?” he asks, his voice oddly rough.
I glance up at him. “For caring.”
His expression tightens, like he’s trying to fight whatever’s clawing its way to the surface.
Then, finally, his hands settle on my back, just for a second.
Before I can overanalyze it, footsteps echo down the hall. Heavy. Purposeful.
Maxim steps into the kitchen, his scarred face unreadable, but there’s something different in his stance. Tension. Urgency.
“Ivan,” he says, voice clipped. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Ivan straightens instantly, his entire body shifting from the quiet, brooding man who just carried me across the house to the cold, lethal killer he really is.
Maxim continues. “It worked.”
“Good.”
“What worked?” I ask.
“We hit the brothels, got the people out. Pissed him off royally. Then we sent out the location. We’ve got the fucker trapped. Darren’s location just pinged.”
I grip the edge of the counter as my pulse spikes, blood rushing in my ears.
Darren.
The man who tried to destroy me. The man who hurt me.
He’s within reach.
But then anger flares up in me. “I thought I was drawing him in.”
Maxim glances from me to Ivan. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Tell me what?”
Ivan faces me, his face like stone. “You’re pregnant. It’s too dangerous.”
“That’s it? You just decided. Changed the plan without even consulting me. Am I your wife or your fucking concubine?”
“Not now,” he snarls, turning back to Maxim. “Where is he?”
Maxim jerks his chin. “Outside the city. A safe house on the river.”
I push away from the counter, my voice steady despite the way my heart slams against my ribs. “I’m coming.”
Ivan freezes mid-step, his gaze snapping to me. “No.”
I clench my fists. “I know how to shoot now. I should?—”
“I said no.” His voice is sharp, final. “I won’t risk your life.”
The air between us crackles, the same tension that’s been simmering for days now boiling over.
I step closer, gripping the doorframe behind me to keep myself steady. “You don’t get to decide that.”
His expression hardens. “The hell I don’t.”
I take a slow breath, forcing myself to stay calm. “I’ve already killed men, Ivan.” My voice doesn’t shake, but inside, my stomach churns with memories. “Without me, you wouldn’t even have the flash drive. I’m part of this.”
He steps forward, closing the space between us. “You’re pregnant.” His voice is quiet, rough. Desperate. “This isn’t about just you anymore. You need to protect the baby.”
My throat tightens. “This is me protecting the baby.”
His jaw clenches, his fists curling at his sides.
Maxim watches us silently, not interfering. Not yet.
I meet Ivan’s gaze head-on. “If you really believe I belong in this world, if you trust me—if you love me—you’ll let me help.”
The word love hangs between us, raw and exposed.
His face remains unreadable, but something flickers behind his eyes, something dark and unreadable. His fingers twitch at his sides.
Then, after a long, unbearable silence, he exhales sharply and turns away.
“We’ll talk later.”
My stomach drops.
That’s it?
I step forward, but Maxim shifts between us. Not aggressively, but firm enough to make it clear—Ivan has made his decision.