26. Gabriel
Two days later…
Two days. That's how long I've managed to keep my distance. Two days of giving her space. Of not hovering. Of not dragging her deeper into my world than she already is. I make sure she eats. Drinks. Sleeps. Or at least I try to. I check in when she needs it. Step back when she doesn't.
It's… restrained. Because every instinct in me says do the opposite. Stay close. Don't let her out of my sight. Don't let her breathe without me knowing. Yeah. That's a problem.
In the meantime, I've been working relentlessly on trying to find Salazar. The man's gone to ground like a fucking ghost. No calls. No movement. No mistakes. He didn't even show for the meeting. Massimo is livid. And that's putting it mildly.
"Nobody stands me up," he growled. "Especially not some low-life cartel dog."
Translation? Salazar's already dead. He just doesn't know it yet.
But until he is, the threat to Audra is still very real.
The problem is that keeping her locked up in the penthouse only works for so long.
This morning, she was pacing like a caged cat.
Asking me about the Cartel and Salazar. Getting that look in her eyes again.
The one I saw in the warehouse. The one that says she's about to do something reckless. I need to redirect that. With finesse.
I come up with a plan. Not a perfect one. But it'll do.
Stacy's been… stable. For the most part. Still complaining. Still narrating her life like it's a one-woman show. But physically? Better. Mentally? Debatable. Right now, she's fixated on one thing. One of her cats.
"Mittens needs a nail trim," she told me yesterday. I'm not sure if she was expecting me to actually give a fuck. I don't.
Apparently, the thing is feral. Mean. Untouchable. I suggested a tranquilizer. She looked at me like I'd just proposed murder. Probably fair. Instead, she recruited Mario and Jack. That went about as well as expected.
Both of them ended up with the doc doing a house call, giving them a tetanus shot. The cat? Untouched. Still reigning supreme.
I stand by the window now, watching the city wake up beneath me. Vegas. Bright and alive. The first tourists are starting to show their faces in the late morning glow, having no idea what's moving underneath it. I glance toward the hallway. Toward where she is.
Audra.
And I already know she's not going to stay passive much longer. Not without pushing back. Not without demanding control. I can't have that. Not right now. Not when someone out there is still trying to kill her.
Hence the plan to give her something to occupy her time. Something that will help her defend herself if it comes to that. Not that I'd let that happen, but… it might serve two purposes.
I push off the window and head down the hall.
Knock once. Then open the door. She's inside.
Sitting on the bed, staring at her phone.
And for a second—just a second—everything else fades.
She's the most breathtaking thing I've ever laid eyes on.
It's not just the way she looks. It's… everything.
The layers. The contradictions. The strength I've seen crack and rebuild itself in real time.
There's more to her than meets the eye. More than she even realizes.
A diamond has facets. She has depths. I have a feeling she's just as hard. A tear slips free, landing on the screen of her phone. My hands curl into fists. Pete.
Last night I heard Audra crying out in her sleep again, wrecked by yet another nightmare from the warehouse. I rushed to her, but her mom was already there. I heard Audra sob, Pete.
I'd bet my last dollar she's looking at pictures of him.
How the fuck is a man supposed to compete with a ghost?
If he were alive, I could've shown her exactly what he was.
Outclassed him. Outplayed him. Taken what I wanted and made her forget his name.
But no. The asshole got himself killed. And now I'm stuck here, competing with memory.
With grief. With a version of him that only gets better with time.
"We're going on a trip," I tell her when she finally looks up at me.
Her brows knit slightly. Questioning. Suspicious.
"Get ready," I add. "Wear something comfortable."
She studies me for a second longer. Like she's trying to decide if this is another one of my orders or something else. It's both.
"Ten minutes," I finish before walking out. Because if I stay, I'll start watching her again. And that never ends well.
She's ready in eight. I don't comment on it. Just nod once and motion for her to follow me. We don't need guards for this. Or an entourage. Just us.
Her eyes flick around as we step into the private elevator. She's starting to notice things now. The restricted access. The way doors open without buttons. The quiet authority.
The ride down is smooth. Silent. Longer than it should be.
She glances at me once. Twice. But doesn't ask.
The doors slide open. Cool air greets us.
Concrete. Steel. Controlled. The space is large and underground.
Soundproofed. A private shooting range. Only a handful of people know it exists. Even fewer have access to it.
She steps out slowly. Takes it in. Rows of lanes. Targets set at different distances. Weapons secured behind reinforced glass. Clean. Organized. Lethal. Her gaze shifts back to me. Understanding dawning.
"You're teaching me how to shoot," she questions.
I nod. "You want revenge," I tell her simply. She doesn't deny it. "Then you need to stop being a liability."
The words are blunt on purpose. I want her on edge. A flicker of something crosses her face. Not hurt. Not quite anger. Is that… amusement? I step closer. Close enough that she has to tilt her head to look at me.
"You don't freeze," I continue. "You don't hesitate. And you don't miss."
My voice drops. "Because next time, there might not be someone there to pull you out."
I don't rush it. This isn't about speed.
It's about control. I unlock the case and reach for something simple.
Reliable. A Glock 19. Light enough. The recoil is manageable even for someone like her.
Forgiving for someone who's probably never held a gun in her life, aside from that one time she shot me.
I turn back to her, holding it low, safe.
"This is what you start with," I tell her.
Her gaze drops to it. Not afraid. Not hesitant. Curious. That… flicker is back. The one that would resemble amusement if I didn't know any better. Like she's humoring me. That shouldn't irritate me. But it does.
I step closer. Close enough to guide. Not close enough to lose control.
"First rule," I place the gun in her hands, adjusting her grip. "You treat every weapon like it's loaded." Her fingers curl around it. Steady. Too steady. "Finger off the trigger," I add, nudging it slightly. "Until you're ready to shoot."
She watches intently and listens without arguing. Simply absorbing what I'm about to teach her. I show her how to check the chamber. How to rack the slide. How to hold it properly. Her stance is off. I fix it. Shift her shoulders. Adjust her arms. She lets me without flinching or leaning away.
Which is a mistake. Because now she's too close.
Close enough that I catch traces of her, clean, soft scent.
Something floral I can't place but immediately want more of.
Close enough that a strand of her hair brushes against my wrist when I move.
Close enough that if I shift just a fraction more… she'd be in my arms.
My muscles tense. Focus. I adjust her grip again, slower this time. Not because she needs it. Because I do. Because if I don't keep my hands occupied, I'm going to do something I shouldn't. Like kiss her.
Her back is to my chest. Not touching, but it might as well be. The heat radiating off her is like my own personal drug. I can't get enough of it. She tilts her head a fraction, watching what I'm doing. Trusting. Unaware. Or pretending to be. I can't tell. And that's another problem.
"You don't fight the recoil," I advise, my voice sounds rougher than it should. "You control it."
She nods. Like she understands. Like she's done this before.
She hasn't. But something in her… gets it.
Instinct. Like she didn't just undo my entire train of thought by standing too damn close.
I step back. Half a step. Enough to breathe again.
Not enough to stop wanting. She lifts the gun.
My gun. And something in me shifts. Hard. Immediate. Unexpected. Fuck.
The sight of it in her hands—steady, controlled, like it belongs there—does something to me I wasn't prepared for.
At all. I've seen women with guns before.
Hell, I've put them there. Taught them. Watched them.
It never did a damn thing for me. But her…
standing there, shoulders squared, eyes focused, my weapon gripped in those small, steady hands like she was born to hold it…
my mind goes to my cock, her hands around it. Fuck, now I'm harder than a rock.
It hits different. Hits wrong. My jaw tightens again. My body follows. A slow, unwelcome reaction that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with instinct. Possession. Power. Her.
I drag a hand over my mouth. Refocus. Force myself to think. To stay where I need to be. Because if I let my mind go where it wants—if I let myself imagine her turning that look on me—Yeah, that's a line I'm not crossing. Not like this.
Her gaze drifts. Past me. To the far end of the case. I follow it. And there it is. A Desert Eagle .50. Heavy. Brutal. Unforgiving. Not a beginner's weapon. Not even close.
"That one," she says, tilting her chin toward it. "Looks bigger."
I huff out a quiet breath. It does. It is.
"That one," I tell her evenly, "will break your wrist if you don't know what you're doing."
She looks back at me. Unimpressed. "But it looks scarier."
There it is again. That edge. That pull toward danger. Toward something bigger. Darker. I lower my voice.
"You don't need scary," I correct. "You need effective."
Her eyes hold mine in an unvoiced challenge and a subdued fire. Fuck. Why the hell is she getting to me like this?
"For now," I add, turning her back toward the lane, guiding her hands into position again, "you learn this."
Her lips turn into a pout. Fuck, now instead of her hands, I imagine those lips around my cock. I can feel precum run down my dick. With the remainder of my waning willpower, I add in a rasp, "You'll earn the rest."
That gets her. I see it. A spark. Something that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was. Just buried. She lifts the Glock. Aims. Her arms don't shake. Her breathing steadies. I step behind her. Close enough to correct her form one more time. Close enough to feel her. Not touching.
"Line up the sights," I murmur near her ear. "Slow breath in… and out."
Her inhale is sharp. Sharper than it should be. For a moment, I wonder if my nearness does something similar to her as hers does to me. She exhales. "Now squeeze."
The shot cracks through the range. Sharp. Clean. Controlled. Bullseye. She doesn't flinch. My mouth twitches. Yeah. There she is.
"Now you." I step back to watch.
She lifts the Glock again. No hesitation.
No second-guessing. Just… focus. Pure. Sharp.
Deadly. She lines up the shot. And starts firing.
Not wild. Not panicked. Controlled. Measured.
One after the other. Small, precise bursts.
My jaw tightens as I watch the target at the other end of the lane.
Chest. Center mass. Again. Again. Again.
The paper jerks with every impact. Shredding exactly where it should.
Like she's done this a hundred times. Like this is second nature.
What the fuck.
"One bullet left," she announces calmly.
I don't answer. I never told her how many rounds were in the magazine.
It's an extended magazine that holds two more rounds than is standard.
Someone with no experience wouldn't know that.
I'm still watching her. Trying to figure her out.
And then it clicks. She's counting. Every shot.
Like a fucking professional. She adjusts her stance slightly.
Tilts her head. Takes her time before she fires the last shot.
It cracks through the range. Clean. Final.
Right between the dummy's eyes.
The silence that follows is underlined by the ringing in my ear. I excuse my lack of logical thinking because all my blood seems to be in my cock.
She lowers the gun. Turns to me. And for a second, there's something almost playful in her expression.
With a slight smile, she blows lightly across the barrel.
Like some old western cliché. At the same time, her fingers move, smooth and effortless.
The magazine slides free without her even looking.
I just stare at her.
"You've done this before." I feel like an idiot.
It's not a question. It's a fucking fact. Her smile is small and elusive. Once. Then again. Like she knows exactly what she just did to me. And doesn't mind it one bit.
If I thought I wanted her before?
That was nothing compared to now. I have barely enough control to keep myself from lifting her up onto the small edge by the shooting range, pulling down her pants, and fucking her. Senseless.
I grimace with the effort it takes to force my hands to stay exactly where they are. Controlled. Still. Like everything else about me.
Even though it's a lie. Because inside? There's nothing controlled about this.
I've never wanted a woman the way I want her.
Not like this. Not where it gets under my skin, into my blood, into every goddamn cell of my body.
She's not just in my head. She's everywhere.
Like she rewired something fundamental in me the second I laid eyes on her.
This isn't desire. It's not even need. It's darker, deeper. An instinct. Primal and ferocious. An absolute certainty.
Mine.
The word settles heavy in my chest. Not questioned. Not debated. Just… is.
Nothing has changed. Not my nature, not the fact that with her, I still have to deny it. I still have to force myself to wait, not take. Even if every part of me is pushing, demanding, and urging me on. To see how far she'll bend. To feel where she'll give. My control isn't slipping.
It's being tested. Strained. Pulled tighter with every breath she takes, every glance, every second she stands too close and doesn't step away.
She doesn't know it yet. But she's going to be mine.