6. - – Amelia
CHAPTER SIX
-
AMELIA
Christian presses the cold metal of the gun into my palm as the fog drifts across the lake behind us. I immediately try to give it back.
His eyebrow rises.
"No."
The single word makes me pause. I stare down at the pistol. The weight surprises me, and so does the fear I feel holding it. I don't fear the weapon itself. I fear what it represents. Power. Responsibility. Choice. Things I've never really been allowed to have.
"I've never fired a gun before."
Christian folds his arms across his chest.
"You'd never escaped an abusive piece of shit like Preston before either, but look at you now."
I glare at him, and he almost smiles. Almost.
"This isn't the same thing, Christian."
"It is."
It is, and I hate when he's right. Unfortunately, he's right a lot.
My first lesson starts with Christian teaching me how to stand, to hold the gun, and to control my breath. Everything feels awkward and unnatural. The first shot misses the target entirely. The second isn't much better. By the third, my frustration burns hotter than my embarrassment.
"I'm sorry." The apology leaves my mouth automatically.
"For what?"
I stare at him, my brain scrambling for an answer. The explanations feel obvious to me. I missed the target over and over again, I failed, and wasted his time trying to teach me a skill I'm not capable of learning. But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out.
"You missed a target," he says.
I nod.
"That's not something you need to apologize for."
Heat crawls up my neck because I genuinely believed it was. Preston would have found a reason that this was my fault. He always had a reason.
Christian steps closer to me.
"Again."
His large hands settle over mine, warm and steady. The sudden contact makes my stomach flutter, and I immediately hate myself for noticing. Christian doesn't seem affected, at least not outwardly.
His chest brushes against my back as he adjusts my stance. One hand grasps my leg at the knee to move my feet wider apart. My pulse jumps.
"Breathe."
I inhale.
"Good. Just relax." His hands settle over mine again.
"Easy for you to say."
A quiet laugh escapes him, "There she is."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're arguing. If you're willing to argue, you're ready to stand up for yourself."
I roll my eyes, and his smile widens as his hands tighten around mine.
"Now shoot."
I aim, exhale, and slowly squeeze the trigger just like he told me. The gun fires, and the target jerks backward.
I stare, then stare some more.
"Oh my God. Did I hit it?"
Christian steps back, "You hit it." There is a hint of pride in his voice.
A laugh bursts out of me. A real laugh, not forced or performed. I just feel... happy. I can't remember the last time happiness felt easy.
When I look at Christian, his expression changes, and the pride disappears. His gaze lingers a second too long, and my stomach flips. Neither of us says anything, but the silence between us suddenly feels different.
Training becomes part of our routine. Every day I'm learning something new, and I become a little stronger.
Christian teaches me how to track movement in the woods and identify disturbed ground. How to recognize danger and find it before it finds me.
The more I learn, the angrier I become. Not at Christian or me, at my father and Preston. The more I learn, the more I realize how much of my helplessness was manufactured and taught.
Christian never treats me like I'm fragile or incapable of anything. He expects me to learn, to improve, to fight. He tells me I can do anything, it just takes practice. And somewhere along the way, that belief in me became contagious.
One evening, we returned to the lake house from checking traps we had set in the woods. A rifle rests comfortably against my shoulder. A few weeks ago, that would have terrified me. Now it feels normal.
Christian keeps looking at me as we walk, and I catch him twice. The third time, I stop walking. "What?"
He looks away immediately. "Nothing."
"Liar."
His head turns, and our eyes meet. The air shifts, and that strange tension that's been following us around for weeks is back. For a second, I think he is going to turn away and keep walking, but he doesn't.
"I was just thinking strength looks good on you."
I don't know what to do with that. I've spent years learning that nice words were really just leashes. Smiling at compliments that came wrapped in conditions. But Christian's voice holds none of that. No angle. No expectation waiting behind it.
Christian doesn't push it. He moves past me toward the porch steps. I watch the movement of his shoulders, the unhurried way he carries himself. Like the world has to adjust to him, not the other way around.
Inside, I notice the fire is low. I set my rifle down by the door and crouch to feed it without thinking, without waiting for him to tell me it needs doing. It's a small thing, but just weeks ago, I would have hovered nervously until he gave some signal that it was allowed.
Christian notices too. I can feel his eyes on me without looking at him.
I add another log and watch the flames catch, throwing orange light across the walls. I keep my eyes fixed on the fire because looking at him right now feels like too much.
"Thank you for everything you've done. For letting me stay." My eyes drift toward the rifle leaning against the doorframe. "For teaching?—"
I don't get any further before Christian is crouching beside me, turning my face up toward his.
"Don't thank me. I'm not done with you yet."