22. Chapter 22
TIERNEY
A soft knock on the bedroom door pulled me from my thoughts. I'd been pacing for nearly an hour and expected it to be closer to dinnertime when Larissa came to check on me.
In three quick strides, I was at the door, eager for Larissa to give me the all clear to spar with Ahren. At this point I still sucked, but just the thought of one day watching that smug smile slide off his face when I knocked his butt to the mat, that was all the motivation I needed to learn.
The door swung open, and I froze. Ahren stood there, his perfectly tousled, 'I just did something bad' hair falling just in front of his eye.
My lips parted, not really sure what to say, barely managing a stilted, "hi". Fuck, I felt stupid. This is his house, and I somehow managed to forget that and be shocked by his presence every time I saw him .
His eyes raked over me, his gaze nearly as scalding as his fingers had been.
"Come with me."
"But—"
"I thought you wanted to train," he said, the challenge clear in his tone.
"I did. I—I mean, I do." I answered, pulling myself together.
"Grab your knives and the pistol."
My brows pinched in confusion, but I obeyed wordlessly. Why would I need to be armed for hand-to-hand?
I trailed behind him as we ascended the stairs to the third floor, where the gym was. But instead of making a left at the top of the stairs, we turned right.
Ahren left me in the doorway, walking to the far wall and raising the shades one by one, flooding the cavernous room with natural light.
On my right was a wall, similar to the one in his room, with various weapons: knives, daggers, pistols, and a crossbow.
I snorted as my eyes landed on a sword, because, of course, Ahren had a sword.
My heart clenched, a deep ache settling into my chest when I found the scout mounted near the end of the wall.
My eyes snapped to his, finding him wearing a soft smile, so uncharacteristic of the cocky rival assassin I had known up till now.
He jammed his hands into his pocket and nodded.
"I can shoot it?" my fingers danced against my thighs. I missed my own tiny death machine, but shooting his would take the edge off.
"It's yours." His quiet reply seemed to echo through the room.
"I know how it feels to have a favorite weapon in hand. Your knives are great but injured. It's only natural you'd feel safer with your scout. I promise, when this is all over, we'll liberate yours. But I thought—"
"Thank you." I interrupted. " She's beautiful."
I lifted her gently, running my fingers along the smooth surfaces, committing every curve to memory.
"It suits you," he said, coming to stand next to me. "I had thought to convert you to a Dragunov like mine, but the shorter barrel length fits your smaller frame."
"I wouldn't give up my tiny death machine for anything."
We shared a laugh. The awkwardness I expected to linger from my idiotic rejection was, thankfully, absent.
"This is one of the places I use for target practice. Until Connor clears you for sparring, I thought you might feel more in control if you were keeping your skills sharp."
My eyes swept over the walls to our left and right, finally noticing the dozens of targets at various heights and angles. Perfect to practice with any of the weapons here.
"You will need this," he murmured.
His fingers brushed against mine as he dropped the foam ear plugs into my hand, then lingered a beat longer than necessary as he passed me a pair of earmuffs.
"Thanks." I swallowed hard, giving my head a hard shake, trying to rid myself of the indecent thoughts that flashed behind my eyes.
He turned me around and stepped up behind me. His heated breath ghosted across my exposed skin, sending pulses of pure fire racing through my veins.
"What's your favorite position?" he asked, his smooth velvety voice taking on a gravelly tone as if the close proximity affected him too.
"Excuse me." I all but stuttered. My head snapped up and met his gaze.
An amused smirk played on his lips. "For shooting, I mean."
"Oh," I turned away, hoping to hide my flaming cheeks, "Prone." I murmured softly.
"Mmm." he hummed in agreement, the deep sound rumbling in his chest. "That’s one of my favorites, too. "
His hand pressed lightly against the small of my back, urging me forward.
"See these grips on the wall?"
I nodded, still too affected to speak.
He stepped around me, granting me a moment's reprieve, and pulled on the black metal grips built into the wall. To my utter shock, the wall moved with him. Three levels that ran nearly half the length of the room offered a variety of perches and positions to shoot from.
My mouth hung open, which I'm sure in hindsight was really attractive, as I processed what I was seeing. This room was basically an assassin's playground.
He shrugged, throwing me that signature smirk.
"It started as a standard indoor range, but I got bored.
Besides, I needed to practice more than just a pistol.
Don't worry. Everything is reinforced. You can't shoot through these three walls and as long as you're not using the 357, the windows are safe, too. "
It took every ounce of my mental strength to snap my mouth shut, not sure how to even respond.
He tossed me a box of ammo and stepped back against the wall, pushing the pieces of foam into his ears. "Take her for a spin."
My head bobbed, and I couldn't hold back the smile that spread across my face.
With a final, quick sweep of the room, I began walking up the step ramps that led to the highest perch in his wacky shooting gallery.
Every step felt cathartic. Healing parts of me I hadn't realized were damaged in the attack.
My fingers worked on muscle memory as I surveyed the room, freezing as I took in the array of targets; so many to choose from. The air felt tight, and I swallowed hard. The last time I had any say in my target had been my father. Every kill since had been at someone else's direction.
"Everything ok up there?" Ahren called out.
"Yeah. I just-"
"That one," he interrupted, a small red dot appearing on a target near the high ceiling in the far corner.
My body responded on auto-pilot, falling into position, my breath stabilizing as I tilted my head to check the sight.
As if on cue, the red dot disappeared, leaving the target clear for me. The target rose and fell in my sight with every breath. "Gotcha." My breath caught, knowing my aim was perfect. I squeezed the trigger, the air in my lungs releasing, as if set free by the gunshot.
I was usually quick to snap up and change positions, but this time my movements were slow, pensive.
"All clear." He yelled.
"All clear." I confirmed.
He walked up the ramp casually and sat down a few feet from me, his face thankfully devoid of judgment. "Perfect shot."
I swallowed hard and nodded. "I hesitated." No point in beating around the bush.
"Perfect shot," he retorted.
I shook my head hard—he didn't understand. My lips parted, a wicked reply on my tongue.
He pressed his finger to my lips, silencing my argument. "You obliterated your target. Hesitation or not, it was a perfect shot."
I nodded, still not sure how I felt in this moment. If anything, I was fucking angry at myself for having lost my mojo.
He hooked his finger under my chin, guiding me to him. "I won't bullshit you. When your performance is shit, I'll tell you. Every time. When I say that shot was perfect, I mean it. "
My eyes slid shut. The first night here, I would have believed him, no question.
But things had been drifting into murky waters as the days wore on.
We seemed to be becoming something resembling friends.
Did you tell your friends their shooting was shit?
I'd have to ask Larissa. I didn't have any friends, so I honestly didn't know how that worked.
But in this moment, my spirit, that had been more damaged than I knew, needed to believe in his words. Needed to trust that the sexy assassin before me was brutally honest, not just brutal.