Page 78 of Ruthless

"Not bad," Luka said generously. "Again. This time, anticipate the recoil."

I fired again. And again. Each shot came easier, my body adjusting to the rhythm. After a full magazine, I'd hit the target more often than not, though my grouping was terrible.

"Not a natural, but definitely better than I expected," Luka said with a small smile, acknowledging my previous reluctance without pushing.

"That's generous of you," I said, carefully setting down the empty gun, still uncomfortable with the whole concept despite the necessity. "I still hope I never have to use one for real."

He ejected the magazine and checked the chamber. "That's the goal. This is just insurance." He paused, then asked, "Want to see how it's really done?"

There was something boyish in his expression, excitement mixed with the desire to show off. I nodded, curious despite my moral qualms about firearms.

Luka selected a different gun, movements flowing like water. He barely seemed to aim before firing—bang, bang, bang—each shot punching through the target's center so fast the individual sounds blurred together. He switched to a second target, then a third.

In under thirty seconds, he'd put perfect groupings in five different targets at varying distances.

"Holy shit," I breathed.

He grinned, ejecting the magazine with a flourish. "That's just the warm-up. Watch this."

He hit a button that sent targets sliding left and right at different speeds on tracks. Then he did something with the control panel that made my jaw drop. The lights dimmed dramatically, leaving only emergency lighting. The targets were barely visible.

"Luka, you can't possibly—"

He grabbed two guns this time, one in each hand, and proceeded to hit every moving target in near-darkness. The muzzle flashes lit his face in split-second bursts, revealing intense concentration that was somehow incredibly sexy.

"Now you're just showing off," I said.

Nothing to see here. Just a therapist observing excellent motor control and precision. Nothing to do with how incredibly hot it was watching him command deadly weapons like they were extensions of his body. Nothing at all.

"I'm just getting started." He holstered one gun and pulled out a knife. "Want to see something really impressive?"

Without waiting for an answer, he threw the knife at a target twenty feet away. It hit dead center. Then, in one fluid motion, he quick-drew his gun and put six shots in a perfect circle around the knife blade.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered, adjusting myself discreetly.

"Still not impressed?" He was fully in his element now, eyes bright with excitement. "Okay, how about this?"

He set up a playing card on a target holder, then walked back to the fifty-foot mark.

"You're not seriously going to—"

He shot the card in half. Vertically.

"That's impossible," I said, walking over to examine the card. Sure enough, split clean down the middle.

"Eight years of practice," he said, coming up behind me. "I once made a shot from 1,400 meters in high wind. Saved Jane's life, actually. She said I was showing off then, too."

"Were you?"

"Maybe a little." He pressed against my back, arms coming around to position my hands on his gun. "But mostly I just like being good at something. Really good. Best in North America, actually."

"Best in North America?" I turned in his arms. "That's quite a claim."

The light in his eyes dimmed, the playfulness bleeding away. For a moment, he looked lost, like he'd forgotten where he was. His hands stilled on the weapon, then resumed their movement. All the fluid grace I'd been admiring was gone, replaced by something cold.

I wanted to reach for him, but something in his posture warned me away. Despite our closeness this morning, despite everything we'd shared last night, he seemed suddenly distant. Unreachable. As if he’d opened a door inside him that he couldn't close.

He set the gun down carefully and turned to face me, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to be honest."

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