Page 67 of Web of Lies
"Thanks for not thinking I'm crazy."
Her mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk. "Oh, you're definitely a little crazy." She tilts her glass toward me. "But so is everyone else in this house. So, welcome to the family."
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, and I shake my head. Maybe being a little crazy isn’t so bad. Maybe it's the only way to survive in this world. And falling in love with a monster may not be the worst thing after all. Evelyn did it, and she managed to tame hers. And maybe, just maybe, that means there’s hope for us too.
Chapter 31
Riley
Kyle stands beside me, his attention glued to the patio table in front of us, where various handguns are neatly laid out. I don't recognize most of them. But I spot my own near the edge, along with Kyle's go-to gun. My gaze follows his every move as he picks up the first firearm, checks the chamber, and loads it with quick, practiced movements.
We got here two days ago, and Kyle gave me space to breathe, get used to the new surroundings, and pretend that life could be calm for a moment. That illusion only lasts so long, though. We can’t wait forever because sooner or later, reality always finds a way back.
My attention shifts to the paper target pinned to a tree a few yards away. "So, you're teaching me how to shoot at paper targets?" I ask.
"I'm teaching you how to shoot, period," he replies with a sigh. "Your form is a mess, and let's not even talk about your trigger control."
"Thanks for the compliment," I mutter, pursing my lips. But he's not wrong. The last time I held and fired a pistol was fiveyears ago, when I was practicing before joining Hunt. Once I was in, there wasn't really a reason to continue. My role in IT didn't require self-defense skills. On the rare occasions when I had to access a system at the target's location, someone with more experience always had my back.
"If you really want to kill someone, you need to know how to protect yourself," Kyle says. "A gun is the easiest way to maintain distance while still doing serious damage." He clicks the chamber into place, then looks up at me with a smirk. "And I don't think close combat is your thing."
"Oh, really?" I raise an eyebrow. "And what makes you so sure?"
"You just don't strike me as a fighter," he says, that familiar, mocking smirk tugging at his lips.
"I knocked you out at the restaurant."
"Yeah, thanks to your taser." He scoffs. "But hey, if you're hiding some skills, I'd love to be proven wrong."
"No, thank you." I roll my eyes so hard that it's a surprise they don't get stuck in the back of my head. "With that grin on your face, you're probably hoping this turns into a fight that ends in sex. It's bad enough that we have an audience for my practice."
At that, Kyle turns toward the house, where Noah and Evelyn sit on the porch, enjoying a quiet afternoon. Evelyn is sipping coffee, scrolling on her phone, while Noah reads a book beside her.
"They're busy," Kyle says with a shrug, totally unfazed.
"They won't be when I start shooting or if we're fucking in their backyard."
"I wouldn't mind if they watched."
"Kyle," I hiss, my heart skipping a beat. Heat crawls up the back of my neck and spreads across my cheeks.
"My bad," Kyle chuckles, the smirk never quite leaving his lips. He lifts the pistol and holds it out to me, grip-first. "Then let's get to practice."
I hesitate for a second before taking it from him. It's heavier than mine, solid and cold to the touch. My fingers shift awkwardly as I adjust my grip; my wrists struggle to support the unfamiliar weight. Kyle says nothing at first. Instead, he steps closer. His arms wrap around me from behind, and his chest brushes against my back. He covers my hands with his, guiding my fingers into the correct position.
Relax. You're holding the gun as if you're trying to wrestle it into submission," he whispers in my ear. "I thought you didn't want to practice close combat." A chuckle vibrates in his chest and ripples through my body in waves.
"I don't," I say through gritted teeth, taking a deep breath and ignoring the fluttering of my pulse. He nods in approval, gliding his fingers over mine to adjust their placement around the grip.
"See this?" he asks, lightly tapping the back of my hand. "Keep your thumbs forward, not curled in. Your trigger finger should stay off the trigger until you're ready to shoot. Always." He guides my finger up along the side of the frame.
"Like this?" I ask, glancing back at him.
"Exactly. Make sure your other hand wraps around your dominant one. You want a secure grip, but don't crush it." His hot breath brushes against my skin and sends a shiver down my spine. I follow his instructions, adjusting my hold once more. And this time, it already feels better—more secure.
"Perfect." He nods. "Stance matters, too." His hands leave mine and brush over my arms and shoulders before dipping into my waist. His long fingers lace around my hips, and he guides me. Heat pools in my core, and my heart hammers in my chest while a flock of butterflies goes crazy in my stomach. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent." He pushes hisleg between my thighs, gently nudging my legs apart. I bite the inside of my cheek when he brushes against my core, sending a rush of excitement through my muscles.
"Now, raise your arms. Keep your elbows slightly bent. Raise the barrel, line up your sights with the center of the target, and hold steady."
