The gunfire cracks through the open air, louder, sharper, and almost violent in its freedom. It is nothing like the soundproof walls where I had spent months drilling. Indoors, everything had been sterile and flat, with targets printed on paper, the stale air heavy with recycled gunpowder.
But here outdoors, the world feels alive. The recoil snaps into my shoulder with each squeeze of the trigger. Glass bottles lined the stone railing like waiting victims, sunlight scattering across the manicured lawn when they shattered. Tiny shards glint like mirrors before falling into the grass.
My aim is steadier now. Too steady, maybe. Each pull of the trigger is clean and deliberate. This isn't practice anymore. This is a rehearsal.
Behind me, the mansion is standing like a fortress, all dark lines and endless darkness. The fountain hisses in the driveway, water spraying high as black cars roll in and out.
All around me, armed men stand like statues, their eyes flickering only when I move. None dares to interrupt me. This is my space now, my proving ground.
I adjust my stance, rolling my shoulders loose, my pulse calm even as the weight of the pistol tugs at my wrist. Each shot is deliberate, but my mind isn't fully here. It is running ahead, scheming, weaving threads of vengeance into a web I haven't yet sprung.
Months of training have sharpened my skill, but skill alone isn't enough to bring down the four bastards who have ruined my life. I need patience. I need Lucien to believe in me.
Another bottle explodes.
Revenge isn't about killing. It is about timing. About making Lucien trust me enough to hand me the very blade I will one day drive into his chest.
"Your grip is tighter than it should be."
His voice slides through the air behind me, rough and steady. I don't flinch, though my body prickles when he is near. He is close enough that I feel the shift in the air, the kind of presence that fills a space without asking permission.
I lower the gun, the heat of it lingering in my palm. Slowly, I turn.
Lucien is standing just beyond the sunlight, in the shade of the balcony arch, watching me with those unreadable eyes. He isn't in his usual suit. Dark slacks, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Relaxed, but not soft. Never soft.
"You have been watching me," I say and try to keep my voice flat, though the corners of my lips twitch like I am testing him.
"I'd be an idiot not to." He steps closer, boots crunching on gravel. "You with a gun? That is one hell of a show."
I angle the pistol in my hand, the barrel tilting low but visible. "Maybe it's more than a show." I turn to look at his face.
He smirks. His eyes drop to my grip. "Your trigger control's better. But you are still thinking too much. A bullter doesn't care about your head games."
"Funny," I mutter, loading another round with a clean snap. "I think everything in your world is a head game."
Lucien tilts his head, studying me like he can peel me apart layer by layer. "Depends on who is playing."
His words hang between us, charged and dangerous. I turn back to the railing, raise the gun again, and fire. The bottle explodes into dust.
Lucien comes up behind me, so close I can feel the heat of him against my back. His hand brushes my elbow, adjusting my aim just slightly. "Loosen up here." He murmurs, his breath grazing my temple.
I stiffen, pulse quickening, though my body betrays me by obeying his touch. "I don't need to—"
"You do." He cut in, low and certain. "Don't mistake stubbornness for strength."
I fire again, the shot cracking clean, dead center through the neck of a bottle. The glass disintegrates, raining down in a scatter of sunlight.
My chest rises and falls, the adrenaline hitting my bloodstream harder than I want him to see. I drop my arm, echale slow. "Satisfied?"
Lucien's smirk deepens, though his eyes never leave my face. "Not even close."
The way he says it...it isn't about the shot. It isn't about the training. It is about me.
And I know it.
My fingers flex around the pistol grip, not sure if I want to aim it at his chest or let it fall to the ground and close the space between us. Instead, I turn back to the shattered railing, jaw tight.
"This isn't for you," I say in my steady voice.
He leans in, close enough that I can feel the whisper of his words in my ear. "Everything you do with a gun in your hand." He says softly. "Is for me."
I swallow hard, refusing to turn, refusing to let him see how deep the words cut. The pistol hands heavy in my palm, but it is nothing compared to the weight of him, his power, his control, and the dangerous pull I hate and crave in the same breath.
I feel him moving away the moment I squeeze the trigger, and the next bottle shatters. The absence of his presence hit me in two ways, like losing his nearness that I haven't wanted to admit I like, and a relief, like I can finally breathe again without his shadow pressing against my skin.
My lips curve, though I mask it quickly. Relief and loss. The contradiction gnaws at me even as the echo of the gunshot lingers over the mansion.
I fire again. And again. The rhythm steadies in my pulse, each explosion from the barrel pulling me back into myself. After a few more rounds, I let my arm drop, the pistol dangling loose at my side. The scent of gunpowder clung to my fingers, sharp, almost intoxicating.
The men along the range aren't twitching, aren't moving. They are trained to be statues. But I know they are watching me. Know they are reporting every flicker of my progress back to him.
Good, let him hear how quickly I am learning.
I exhale, calm and collected, then look at the long wooden table beneath the stone arch. Lined across it are hundreds of guns, pistols, rifles, clips, and neat rows of steel and matte black. Tools, all waiting for my hands.
Slowly, almost casually, I walk over, running my palm along the edge of the table. I try to remain cool and controlled, as if I am nothing more than a dutiful student setting down my weapon after practice. I lay the pistol flat, the sound of metal against wood sharp in the quiet air.
But my other hand, quick and precise, moves differently. I slip another handgun from the far end of the table, a smaller piece with a smooth handle. With one practiced flick, I tucked it into the waistband of my pants, beneath the hem of my shirt. The cold metal pressed into my skin, grounding me with a rush of forbidden triumph.
No one stops me. No one dares.
I turn on my heels, my chin high, and I walk slowly and measuredly. Past the guards. Past the fountain's hiss. Back toward the mansion's looming doors.
As I cross the threshold, I allow myself a smile, sharp and victorious.
Another step. Another small victory. The gun against my skin is more than steel; it is leverage, a promise, and a reminder that my revenge is moving closer with every calculated move I make.
For the first time in months, I feel powerful. And I am not gonna waste it.