Page 41 of Unspoken

There’s no room for small talk anymore as we're at our booth. It's all serious now.

"Alright," I start, shaking off thoughts darker than the inside of a barrel. "Are you ready?"

"Aren’t we going to pick up some guns and ammo?"

"Yes, I am. You’re staying put."

"Why?"

"Because some people who come here are looking into your brother. Better be out of sight."

Sasha rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree.

I meet Ramon at the supply check-out stand and pick up a Glock, same as mine, buy the ammo, ear protection, and glasses. Then I head back to our lane. When I return to the booth, Sasha looks scared as if he had time to think this over in my absence and isn’t sure he’s up for it.

"You certain you want to do this?" I ask, handing him the glasses and the ear protection.

"Yes. It’s just strange." He shrugs.

"What is?"

"The fact that no one ever considered me good or smart or strong enough to teach me all these things Vlad is doing."

"I don’t think that’s the reason no one showed you how to fire a gun. I think it’s because your family wanted a different future for you."

He shakes his head and says nothing.

"Anyway," I change the subject. "Let’s get started. First thing's safety. Always check if the weapon's loaded before handling it."

"Understood," Sasha replies, his accent wrapping around the words like ivy. His fingers dance nervously on the table where the gun lies disassembled.

"Let's prep your gear." I demonstrate, piecing together the Glock with practiced ease, then fire a few rounds so he could get used to the idea. "You’ll do the same. Work with prepping the weapon first. Muscle memory's important."

Sasha mimics me, slower, but with a concentration that's almost fierce. His hands are steady until they aren't—until they remember where they are, what they're preparing to do.

"Good," I say, because encouragement costs nothing, and he looks like he needs it. "Now hold it like I showed you, firm grip, two hands."

"Like this?" He points at the target at the end of the lane and holds the gun out, and his stance is all wrong—a picture knocked askew.

"Here." I step in close behind him—maybe even too close—and guide his arms into position with my own hands wrapped around his upper body.

My breath fans over the spot behind his ear, and I'm acutely aware of the proximity, the accidental brush of our bodies. There’s tension between us I never anticipated, not with someone eleven years younger. It’s an electric hum under my skin that I've got no right to feel, not now. So familiar and so inconvenient. "Feet shoulder-width apart," I murmur, trying to distract myself. "Bend your knees slightly. Lean forward a bit."Oh fuck! Why did I say that?

"Got it," he breathes, and I can feel the vibration of his voice against my chest even though he’s turned with his back to me, facing the lane.

"Focus on your target," I instruct. "Breathe. Squeeze the trigger gently. Don't jerk it; you're not punching, you're guiding."

"Right. Breathe, aim, squeeze." He repeats the mantra, a whisper lost in the cavernous space. "Not a punch. A guide."

"Exactly." I grab the ear protection slung around his neck and put it on him, then step back. And in that suspended moment, there's nothing but the weight of the world on that single point of pressure. Then, a sharp crack shatters the silence,and the bullet flies off course, punching no hole near the center of the target.

But that doesn’t stop him. He readjusts his stance, the lean muscles under the tight sleeves of his T-shirt shifting beneath his pale, London skin. And all of a sudden Alexander Solovey isn’t a useless, rich kid. He’s a man. Very young and inexperienced, but there’s nothing boyish about him right now, holding a gun with a concentrated face.

This is training, not temptation. Remember that, Logan.

"Logan?" Sasha calls, dragging me out of my thoughts. He pulls the ear protection down. His voice is timid but determined and it has a strange effect on me. "Is it always like this? The weight, the... responsibility of it?"

"Always," I admit, because there's no point in sugarcoating the truth. "It gets familiar, but it never really gets easy."

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