Page 28 of Captured Onyx

"I-I-I can't," I stutter.

He rolls his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. When he closes in on me, I retreat on instinct, but he doesn't let me. He steadies himself behind my back, his arms enclosing around me. His strong hands glide along my arms until they reach my trembling hands.

"Hold it like I showed you." His voice is softer this time. He's not barking the words at me like a military commander, but like a confidante, as if he cares.

He feels so warm. And he smells so good. I can't think of anything else as I follow his order, closing my right hand around the grip while my left one supports the weapon, just like he showed me.

His hands are on top of mine, guiding me as my arms are lifted, and I lean back into his chest. He's so much taller than me, dwarfing me inside his embrace as he governs my motions. My hands are no longer shaking, now that they are secured by his strong, domineering touch.

How can this be so comforting? He's a criminal, a kidnapper. A bad man.

But right now, those pieces of information mean nothing to me and I couldn't be more grateful for his support. For the first time since waking up in that horrible bedroom, I feel warm and safe.

What a betrayal this is. I must be stupid!

"Ready?" he asks, still speaking in that soft and almost loving tone right next to my ear.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I whisper.

I take a deep breath. Focus. Don't get lost in this false sense of security.

"Watch your fingers," he whispers next to my ear, as he gently corrects the position of my fingers around the gun. He wraps his hands around mine, squeezing to keep my hands in place.

"This is exactly how you should hold it," he lectures me in that soft voice. "Close your eyes for a second. Remember it, feel it."

I hesitate for a moment, my eyes flickering nervously before I manage to comply. I shield my vision, trying to focus on the way the gun feels in my hands, trying to memorize the placement of my fingers around the barrel.

At least that's what I should focus on. But it's so hard when my mind strays, instead following another more alluring sensation.

Nate. His scent. His touch. The feeling of his strong chest planted squarely against my back, his heart beating calmly, methodically, and not at a furiously nervous pace like mine. The way his large hands feel around mine, the way his strong arms feel encompassing me...

"Onyx."

My eyes fly open.

"Pull the trigger."

And I do. The shot echoes through the backyard, startling a bunch of birds that have been resting in the trees surrounding us, the commotion drowning out the sound of my own gasp as I process the recoil of the weapon. The jolt wasn't as strong as I feared it would be, but that may be because of his support. It doesn't even feel as if I was the one who fired the shot, but rather that he did and my fingers just followed the motion.

But I know that's not true. I pulled the trigger. I fired the gun.

"Good shot," he praises, still speaking in that soft, encouraging tone. "Now do it again."

I let out a fearful sigh when he removes his hands from mine, and when he makes a move to step away from me, my gaze seeks him out and finds him.

"Please, don't go." The words escape before I realize it. Did I really say that? Did I beg him to stay close to me?

The words seem to startle him as much as they do me, because for a few seconds there's nothing but awkward silence between us, the wind rustling through the trees in the background, a lonely bird chirping.

"I-I-I mean, it's just that... I might need help," I stutter, turning away from him as my face heats with shame. I hate this. I hate how much I want him near to me.

"Okay," he says, approaching me until my back is met with his welcoming chest. "But I won't hold your hands this time. You'll have to do it on your own. I'll just stand here and support your stance, alright?"

I nod, pressing my lips together. "Okay."

He reaches forward, adjusting my arms and correcting the placement of my hands on the gun before moving his hands to my shoulders.

I close my eyes, feeling the weight and texture of the gun in my hands, the way my fingers feel wrapped around it, holding it in a firm grip as if I had done this a million times before. I'm nervous, but I'm not shaking with fear this time. I feel secure and confident.

"You can do this," he says reassuringly.

And he's right.

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