Page 67 of Pretty Monsters

An awareness creeps over me. His need to protect me isn't because he thinks I'm weak, it's because I make him weak. Sin is telling me I'm precious to him, in the only way he knows how.

Moving toward him, his breath catches. I hope he never stops responding like this to me. Stretching up, I kiss his cheek. His hands fall to my waist, and he lifts me up.

"More," he growls, and turns his face.

In contradiction to the way his fingers are digging into my skin, his lips brush softly against mine. I lace my hands through his hair and pull his mouth to mine, seeking more pressure. Our mouths battle for dominance, tongues tangling; it's a fight not for control but for the heart of the other.

Sin doesn't have words for how he feels. My guess is that his feelings are confusing for him, and I don't think he'd know what to do with my words. I can wait for him to name what is going on between us, because I can feel it. He's falling for me, but he needs to come to that conclusion on his own.

Ford clears his throat and chuckles when I blush. He holds a bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows in the other. "You knew I was coming back."

I unwrap my legs from Sin's hips, not realizing I was clinging to him like a baby monkey.

Sin chuckles. "Knew it. Still didn't give a shit."

Ford sets up a target on the far lane, and I slip the arm guard over my hand. I wait until he joins us before notching an arrow. Taking a second to aim, I release it. It whistles quietly as it sails through the target, landing dead center with a soft thud.

"Again," Sin orders.

I repeat the process, landing a succession of arrows right next to each other. Both men stare at me with awe and a new appreciation.

I shrug. "Like I said, I had a lot of time on my hands. Not that a bow and arrows are practical for self-defense."

"Let's try the nine mil," Sin suggests. "I don't suppose you're an expert marksman with that too, are you?"

Shaking my head. "No, they didn't teach us target shooting."

We all put on the ear muffs to preserve our hearing before Sin picks up the weapon, loads a clip, flips off the safety, and pulls the slide back to chamber a bullet. Lucien and Sin both told me how dangerous he is, but seeing the fluidity of his movement speaks volumes about how comfortable he is with a gun.

When he aims, it only takes him seconds to sight the gun and fire several shots rapidly. When Ford presses the button to pull the target forward, all I see is one large hole dead center. Each and every one of his shots went straight through the middle.

Ford places a new target in the clips and sends it back to position. Sin lays the gun on the table in front of us. He puts his hands on my hips and encourages me to take his place.

"I know you were watching. Load it. Remember never put your finger on the trigger unless you plan to shoot. This gun has a safety, but don't rely on that. The real safety is your trigger finger."

I nod and follow the same steps to load the gun he did. Keeping my finger off the trigger and the weapon pointed down. I mimic his stance, feet shoulder width apart, and aim the gun.

It's loud, despite the hearing protection. The kick of the gun jars my body, and I realize I barely hit the target, not even close to the image of the torso on it. I make a few adjustments in the way I'm standing and aim again. This time my shot hits the shoulder of the image. Not a killing blow. I frown.

"We'll practice until it's natural," Sin says, his hands sliding down my arms. He adjusts the way I'm holding the gun and steps back.

This time when I aim I hit just below center. It takes a few clips before I'm consistently hitting the center of the target.

"You're a natural," Ford praises.

Sin nods. "You are very dangerous, princess."

My arms shake, unused to the kickback of the gun. After I put the weapon down, I shake life back into them.

"That's probably enough for today," Sin comments. "Next time I'd like to go over some self-defense moves. Even if you have trained in the past, I need you to be able to fight like I do. All of them men your father will send learned the same style of fighting. If you can fight me, you stand a better chance of getting away from them."

I nod, and I'm thankful we aren't doing that today. I haven't trained for a few weeks now, and I know it's time to restart my old regimen. I told myself at school that the running and fight training was to occupy my time, but in the back of my mind I somehow knew I needed the skills to survive on my own. Perhaps it was women's intuition or repressed memories, but I wasn't going to be a lamb among wolves.

I'm a raven, harbinger of death. My father would live to regret me, but only just. Someday his black cloud wouldn't hang over our heads, even if that meant he needed to lose his.

22

Fear of Falling

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