Chapter 179 The Shooting Range

Chapter 179 The Shooting Range
Cecilia

The shooting range was nothing like I'd expected.

When Arthur had pulled up to what looked like an unmarked warehouse on the outskirts of the city, I'd assumed we were meeting someone—maybe one of his security contacts, or picking up equipment for the upcoming case.

Instead, he'd led me through a nondescript door into what could only be described as a private tactical training facility.

The main range stretched out before us—multiple lanes with targets at varying distances, all lit by overhead fluorescents that gave everything a clinical, professional quality.

To the left, I could see what looked like a close-quarters combat training area with mannequins and obstacles. To the right, a small armory behind reinforced glass.

"Arthur," I said slowly, turning to look at him with a mixture of curiosity and growing understanding. "What is this place?"

"Private facility," he said, already moving toward the armory with that purposeful stride that meant he'd planned this carefully. "Winston Corporation maintains it for executive protection training. I had it cleared for the afternoon—just us."

"You brought me to a gun range," I said, stating the obvious as I watched him unlock the armory door with a keycode and thumbprint scan. "The day before Alice's wedding. When I should be helping her with last-minute preparations."

"Alice has an army of wedding planners and Max's entire family helping her," Arthur said, pulling open a drawer and retrieving something wrapped in black velvet. "She doesn't need you for the next few hours. But I do."

The velvet fell away to reveal a gun—compact, sleek, matte black with what looked like custom grips that caught the light.

"Glock 43X," Arthur said, holding it out to me with the kind of casual expertise that suggested he'd handled weapons like this countless times. "Subcompact 9mm. Single-stack magazine, six-plus-one capacity. Light enough to carry concealed, powerful enough to stop a threat."

I took it carefully, feeling the weight of it in my hand—heavier than I'd expected, solid in a way that made it feel serious, real, dangerous.

"I know you already know how to shoot," Arthur continued, moving to another drawer and pulling out ammunition, magazines, and what looked like a custom holster. "Carter even gave you a gun right after you got back. But this—" He gestured to the Glock. "This is specifically for you. Custom trigger, night sights, extended magazine release. I had it built to your hand size."

Something warm bloomed in my chest, cutting through the confusion and the lingering soreness from this morning's activities. "You had a gun custom-made for me?"

"Of course I did." He said it like it should be obvious, like having weapons custom-built for your fiancée was just standard relationship behavior. "To be honest, I never expected your next case to be a murder. You’ve improved so fast that I can’t help but worry."

"You're going to be working homicide cases, Ceci. That means dealing with people who've already killed, who have nothing to lose. I need to know you can protect yourself."

He moved closer, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders as he looked down at me with an intensity that made my breath catch. "I know you're capable. I know you're smart and careful and you have a whole security team backing you up. But humor me, okay? Let me teach you how to use this properly. Let me make sure you know how to defend yourself if something goes wrong."

The vulnerability in his voice, the barely concealed fear underneath the practical words, made my throat tight with emotion.

"Okay," I said softly, setting the gun down on the counter with careful precision. "Teach me."

Relief flooded his expression, and he pressed a quick kiss to my forehead before stepping back and shifting into what I could only describe as instructor mode—professional, focused, with that particular edge of controlled intensity that suggested he'd done this before.

He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves with efficient movements that revealed the corded muscle of his forearms.

"Basic safety rules," Arthur said, picking up the Glock and demonstrating as he spoke. "Treat every weapon as if it's loaded. Never point it at anything you don't intend to destroy. Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire. Be aware of your target and what's beyond it."

I nodded, absorbing the information.

"Now," Arthur continued, "let me see your stance."

I moved into position—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight balanced, arms extended.

Arthur circled around behind me, his presence warm and solid at my back, and I felt his hands come to rest on my hips with gentle but firm pressure.

"Close," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear as he adjusted my position slightly. "But your hips are too square. You want them angled—like this."

His hands guided me into a new position, and I felt the shift immediately—better balance, more stable, my body naturally aligned in a way that felt more secure.

"Good," Arthur said, his voice dropping to that low register that always made my stomach flip despite the completely non-sexual context. "Now arms."

His hands slid up my sides to my shoulders, then down my arms, adjusting the angle of my elbows, the position of my wrists. Every touch was professional, instructive, but I couldn't help the way my body responded to his proximity, to the heat of him against my back.

"You're tensing up," he observed, his hands moving back to my shoulders and pressing gently. "Relax. Tension throws off your aim."

"Kind of hard to relax when you're—" I stopped, biting back the words before I could finish that sentence.

Arthur's low chuckle vibrated against my back. "When I'm what, baby?"

"Nothing," I said quickly, forcing myself to focus on the target downrange rather than the way his hands felt on my body. "Just—show me how to hold the gun properly."

He did, his hands covering mine as he demonstrated the proper grip—high on the backstrap, support hand wrapped around the shooting hand, thumbs aligned along the frame.

"Firm but not white-knuckle," he instructed, adjusting my fingers slightly. "You want control, not death grip. The gun should be an extension of your body, not something you're fighting against."