Page 77 of Ruthless

"I'll try," I promised, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. "Just... don't give up on me."

Vincent's smile was soft, genuine in a way that made my chest ache. "Not a chance." He leaned in, brushing his lips against mine in a kiss so achingly gentle it nearly broke me. "Now, let's go learn howto not die tomorrow."

The Acropolis shooting rangewasn't what I expected.

Instead of the sterile, fluorescent-lit concrete bunker I'd imagined, the space looked more like an upscale hotel gym that happened to have targets instead of treadmills. Polished wood floors gleamed under ambient lighting, and what appeared to be actual artwork decorated the walls. Gun oil and cordite tinged the air despite expensive filtration, tickling my nostrils with their metallic, chemical promise of violence.

"People who kill for a living appreciate aesthetics too," Luka said, catching my surprise. "Just because we shoot things doesn't mean we want to do it in a dungeon."

Lo had left us to make arrangements for tomorrow's funeral, promising to return with "toys and boys" which I gathered meant weapons and backup. That left Luka and me alone in this strange, beautiful space designed exclusively for practicing how to end human lives.

I couldn't shake the image of Michael's body hanging from that shower rod. Just days ago he'd been alive, planning his wedding. Now we were preparing to attend his funeral, though attend hardly captured the tactical mission we were planning. Michael deserved proper mourning, not to serve as bait in Prometheus's sick game. My brain could label my emotions, but naming them didn't diffuse their power. They boiled under my skin, demanding action I wasn't trained to take.

Luka led me toward a glass wall separating the lounge area from the actual range. He punched a code into a sleek panel, and the door slid open with a soft hiss. Inside, several shooting lanes stretched out, each with its own digital target system.

"We've got the place to ourselves," Luka said, moving toward a black cabinet. He placed his palm against a scanner, revealing an impressive array of weaponry. "Benefit of being public enemy number one. Nobody wants to risk running into us."

My stomach twisted as he examined various handguns before selecting a matte black pistol.

"Glock 19," he said, his inspection of the weapon hypnotically efficient. Magazine out, chamber checked, barrel examined, trigger tested—all in under fifteen seconds. "Perfect for beginners."

I stared at the gun. Until now, Luka's world of violence existed in some parallel universe to my therapy practice. Now that parallel universe collapsed into mine, sixteen ounces of metal designed solely to punch holes in human bodies. My brain helpfully supplied that this cognitive dissonance was perfectly normal under the circumstances.

Luka handed me ear protection. "The goal isn't to turn you into a killer. It's to give you options. Sometimes survival is the only form of healing available."

For the next twenty minutes, Luka walked me through safety protocols, surprisingly patient. The cognitive whiplash nearly gave me vertigo: yesterday I helped people process trauma, today I learned to inflict it. The irony? I'd never felt safer than with this killer teaching me how to harm.

"You've taught people before," I observed as he adjusted my grip.

"A few times. Usually we recruit people who already know how to shoot."

"You'd make an excellent instructor," I said. "Patient. Clear."

"Murder skills, transferable to education. Who knew?" His lips quirked. "Should I update my LinkedIn? 'Professional killer seeks teaching position. References available upon threat.'"

The gun seemed alien in my hands, both heavier and lighter than expected. My palms slicked with sweat against the textured grip, my heartbeat drumming in my fingertips where they touched cold metal designed for death.

"Ready to load it?" Luka asked.

I nodded, though my heart was racing. He stepped behind me, chest nearly pressed to my back as he guided my hands.

"Magazine goes in like this." His breath was warm against my ear as we slid it into place with a definitive click. "Now rack the slide."

His hands covered mine, helping me chamber a round. The mechanical sound made me flinch.

"Locked and loaded," he murmured. "How does it feel?"

"Terrifying," I admitted. "Powerful. Wrong."

"Good." He adjusted my stance, hands lingering on my hips. "That means you respect what it can do."

When it came time to fire, he positioned me carefully with my feet apart, elbows bent, grip firm but not rigid. His touch remained professional, yet carried that hint of intimacy we'd reestablished beforeleaving the apartment. This morning's distance seemed fully bridged now, replaced by a focused connection.

"Squeeze, don't pull," he instructed through the ear protection. "Nice and easy."

I took a breath, aimed, and squeezed.

The gun bucked against my palms, vibration rattling up my arms and into my shoulder socket as the shot went wide. Acrid gunpowder stung my nostrils and coated the back of my throat, metallic and chemical.

---