Chapter 3 #5
Part of him. Right. As if Harald could focus on anything except the solid presence at his back, the way Jakob's chest brushed against him with each breath. He forced himself to stare down the range at the target, trying to remember what they were supposed to be doing.
"Now," Jakob's voice had dropped even lower, sending a shiver down Harald's spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "Breathe out slowly and squeeze the trigger between heartbeats."
Harald squeezed. The rifle cracked. The target showed a hit, not anywhere close to dead center, but on the paper at least. Respectable—far better than his previous attempts.
"Well done, Your Highness." Was that a hint of warmth in Jakob's voice? But he was already stepping back, resuming his proper distance, and Harald felt the morning cold rush in to fill the space he'd left.
"Fascinating technique, Eliasberg." Christian's voice dripped with something that wasn't quite sarcasm. His eyes moved between them, considering. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
Jakob's expression didn't change, but Harald noticed his shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly. "Rabbits, sir. In my mother's garden. They were eating her vegetables, and we couldn't afford to lose the crop."
Distaste flickered across Christian's face—distaste, perhaps, at this reminder of Jakob's common origins. Or something else. His cousin's gaze lingered on the space between Harald and Jakob, still charged with something Harald refused to name.
"How resourceful." Christian's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Since you're so eager to offer instruction, Eliasberg, you can spend your free period this afternoon helping Sergeant Nilsson clean the armory.
All of it. I'm sure your expertise will be invaluable in ensuring every weapon is properly maintained. "
Harald opened his mouth to protest—Jakob had only been following proper protocol, after all—but Jakob spoke first.
"Yes, sir," he said, with parade-ground precision in his voice. Only the slight whitening of his knuckles on his rifle betrayed any reaction.
"Carry on then." Christian turned away, dismissing Jakob as if he were suddenly invisible. "Your Highness, shall we continue with your practice?"
Harald raised the rifle again, trying to hold onto the feeling of Jakob's corrections.
His next shot wasn't as good as the one Jakob had guided, but it was better than before.
He could still feel the ghost of those hands at his waist, the warmth of that breath against his neck.
The memory made his skin prickle with awareness even as guilt churned in his stomach.
He'd gotten Jakob in trouble, just by needing his help.
The rest of the practice passed in a blur of gunpowder and frost-numbed fingers.
Harald couldn't help tracking Jakob's movements at the far end of the line—the fluid grace of his reloads, the quiet confidence in his stance.
Every shot dead center. No wonder Christian had felt threatened enough to punish him.
When the order came to clear the weapons, Jakob worked with the same care he'd shown all morning. He was the last to return his rifle to the rack, as if he could ward off Christian's attention through sheer military correctness.
"Dismissed," Christian called. "Eliasberg, report to the armory at 1400 hours."
"Sir, yes, sir." Jakob's voice betrayed nothing. He turned on his heel, marching away, his back straight enough to please the most demanding drill sergeant.
Harald lingered, pretending to adjust his gloves. Surely Jakob would look back, give some sign that the library hadn't been a dream, that this morning's closeness had meant... something.
But Jakob disappeared around the corner of the barracks without a single glance behind him.
"Interesting morning, wasn't it, cousin?" Christian's voice made Harald start. He hadn't realized his cousin was still watching him. There was something new in Christian's expression, something that made Harald's chest tight with sudden anxiety.
"Just ordinary rifle practice," Harald managed, forcing his voice to stay even.
"Ordinary." Christian drew the word out, testing it. "Yes, I suppose that's one word for it." He smiled, wolfish and knowing, though what exactly he thought he knew, Harald wasn't sure. "We should get to breakfast. Wouldn't want to be late for class."
Harald fell into step beside his cousin, the crunch of their boots on the frosted ground the only sound. But he could still feel the phantom pressure of Jakob's hands, still hear that low voice in his ear. Let the rifle become part of you.
He was in so much trouble.
The armory smelled of gun oil and cold stone.
Jakob worked methodically down the row of rifles, breaking each one down with practiced movements.
Remove the bolt, check the action, strip and clean each piece.
The Mausers were good rifles, but temperamental—they needed regular attention to prevent the firing pin from sticking or the magazine spring from weakening.
He could do this in his sleep—had done it half-asleep plenty of times, those early mornings in his mother's garden when the rabbits were at their boldest. The work was soothing, or should have been.
Shift your weight forward, like this.