FORTY-TWO

FORTY-TWO

The mat was slick with sweat. Mine. The trainer’s. Maybe even blood. I wasn’t sure anymore.

I spun on instinct, catching the man across from me in the ribs with a brutal kick that sent him stumbling. He was twice my size, military-trained, and he was starting to hesitate. Good.

I needed him to hesitate.

He came back swinging, and I ducked, rolled, then surged up and drove my elbow straight into his shoulder. I felt the crack. A sickening jolt under my skin.

He cursed, staggered, clutched his arm. I didn’t wait. I went in again.

“Enough,” Wesley’s voice cut through the air like a knife.

Just one word, but it froze the whole room. Even the trainer backed away.

I turned slowly, breath ragged, pulse thundering in my ears. Wesley stood by the mirrored wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes darker than I’d ever seen them. Not angry. Just… watching. Measuring.

I hated the way that look unraveled me.

“You nearly dislocated his shoulder,” Wesley said, stepping forward.

I wiped sweat off my jaw with the back of my hand. “He shouldn’t have left his side open.”

Wesley’s gaze flicked to the trainer, who wisely bowed out without a word, retreating to the far end of the facility. We were alone now. The air tightened between us.

“You’re getting faster,” Wesley said. “Meaner.”

I shrugged. “Guess you’re a good motivator.”

He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “You’re starting to look like someone who could kill me.”

I smirked, chest still heaving. “Maybe that’s the goal.”

His eyes dropped—just slightly—to my mouth. Then lower, to where the hem of my training tank was stuck to my damp skin. My whole body was humming, flushed with effort and heat. It wasn’t just from the fight anymore.

The silence between us stretched thin.

I turned to grab my towel, trying to break the tension. My hands shook a little from adrenaline as I wiped my face. I felt him come up behind me, slow and deliberate.

“We’re not done,” he said softly.

I turned halfway, raising a brow. “No more sparring partners left.”

He smiled—barely. “Not for that.”

My breath hitched.

He walked past me, toward the steel door in the back corner of the gym. A door I hadn’t seen unlocked before. He keyed it open, then looked over his shoulder at me.

“Time to teach you something quieter. Something lethal.”

And just like that, the temperature in the room dropped.

I followed him without a word, towel clenched tight in my hand, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the fight.

The elevator dropped deep beneath Wesley’s estate, metal walls silent around us. When the doors finally slid open, the air was colder—sterile and sharp, like a vault meant to keep secrets.

The underground shooting range stretched out in front of us—concrete, steel, low lighting. It smelled faintly of gunpowder and clean oil. I’d never seen it before. He'd never shown me.

Wesley walked ahead, methodical, calm. Like this was just another room in his house. Another version of him I had to learn.

He picked up a sleek black pistol from the table and held it out. I hesitated before taking it.

It was heavier than I expected—solid, cold, unforgiving.

“Power,” he said, “should weigh something.”

My fingers curled around the grip. I stared down at it, uneasy. I didn’t fear guns. I feared what they turned people into.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” he said behind me. “Keep your elbows loose. Shoulders down.”

I obeyed. Or tried to. My body was still wired from the fight earlier—every nerve dialed high. The gun didn’t feel like a weapon. It felt like a question.

I exhaled, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out—loud, sharp. The bullet missed the target by inches.

“Again,” Wesley said.

I tried. Missed again.

“I’m not made for this,” I muttered.

He came up behind me. Close. Too close.

His hands slid over mine—strong, patient, unhurried. He adjusted my grip, then my elbows. His chest brushed my back. Not fully. Just enough for me to feel the heat of him. The restraint.

“Don’t muscle it,” he murmured near my ear. “Control it.”

I swallowed hard.

He stepped in closer, guiding my arms, his breath warm at the base of my neck.

“Breathe with me,” he said.

I hadn’t realized I wasn’t.

He pressed one hand to my stomach, just above the waistband of my leggings. “Here. Let go. You’re holding too much.”

I drew a slow inhale. Matched his rhythm. Our bodies moved together, almost imperceptibly, in sync.

His voice was a low whisper. “Now shoot like you mean it.”

I fired.

The bullet hit center mass.

A second of silence.

I blinked, surprised.

Our eyes met in the reflection of the glass wall. His hands were still on mine, his chest solid behind me, the gun steady between us.

Something flickered in his eyes. Not pride. Not dominance. Something quieter. Something that made my skin ache with heat.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

It would’ve been too easy to ruin the moment with words.

Then, slowly, he stepped back. The air cooled in his absence.

Wesley walked to the table, set down another round, and turned just enough for me to hear him murmur, “Now that you know how to hold the weapon…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Just walked out.



The shooting range was quiet when I returned. I hadn’t meant to. My legs had carried me there without permission, mind still tangled from Wesley’s heat pressed against my spine, from the weight of the gun, from the shot I landed like it belonged to me.

I needed clarity. Silence. Cold steel to remind me who I was.

But the lights were already on.

And Wesley was waiting.

He stood in the center of the range, sleeves rolled, a shadow in the dim glow of overhead bulbs. At his feet was a man—bound, gagged, bruised. Blood streaked down his face. One eye was swollen shut. His chest heaved, rattling like a broken machine.

I stopped cold.

Wesley didn’t look at me right away. He knelt, checked the man’s pulse casually, then finally stood and turned toward me.

“He was one of the ones who broke in the other day,” Wesley said, voice flat. “The other one? He’s dead.”

My breath caught.

The alley. The man who’d begged for help, who’d bled in front of me and whispered that Wesley was no savior. That he was a cage.

The walls of the shooting range felt suddenly smaller. Thicker.

I forced my voice to work. “Why is he here?”

Wesley’s expression didn’t shift. He walked over to the table, picked up the gun I’d used earlier, and tossed it to me.

I caught it, barely.

“Because you’re ready.”

The cold metal in my hands burned now. Not with heat—but with choice.

The man on the floor groaned through his gag. His one good eye locked on mine—wide, terrified. Pleading.

He wasn’t asking Wesley for mercy.

He was asking me.

“I’m not a killer,” I said quietly.

“You’re a survivor,” Wesley replied. “There’s a difference.”

I stared at him. At the clean line of his jaw. The unflinching steadiness in his gaze. There was no pleasure in his eyes. Just something resolute. Hardened. Patient.

“Why me?” I whispered.

His footsteps padded toward me slowly. Deliberate. Controlled.

“Because you said you didn’t want to be anyone’s pawn anymore,” he said. “You want out of the game? Learn how to play it first.”

I looked down at the gun in my hands. My fingers trembled.

The man on the floor whimpered.

Wesley moved behind me, silent as a thought. I didn’t flinch when his hand rested at my hip. Didn’t move when he leaned in, his voice low, sharp.

“This isn’t about him,” he said. “It’s about you.”

I closed my eyes. The memory of the alley ghosted back—blood on my hands, breath rattling in my ears, that dying whisper:

Wesley isn’t your salvation. He’s your cage.

I opened my eyes.

Wesley was close enough for me to feel the heat of him. But I wasn’t sure if he was warmth—or fire.

“You wanted control?” he said softly. “Then take it.”

My finger hovered over the trigger.

The man looked at me like I was the last good thing left in the room. And maybe I had been. Once.

Now, I didn’t know what I was.

Or who the hell he was.

I looked at the man.

Then I looked at Wesley.

And for one terrifying second—I wasn’t sure who the real threat was anymore.