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“You’ll aim just below the center,” he said. “Compensate for the rise.”

“I—” My voice caught. I swallowed and tried again. “Yes.”

He didn’t move away. He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating through his shirtfront. One of his hands still rested at my hip, the other on my wrist.

I should have turned. I should have stepped back. Instead, I fired.

The pistol cracked like a whip, and my arms jolted. His hand caught mine at once, steadying me, as the recoil rang up through my shoulders. But it was the silence that followed that made my skin flush.

I had missed.

Steele reached around me, took the pistol from my hand, and examined the barrel. He said nothing at first. And then “You held your breath too long.”

“I’ll take that into account.”

Once more, he handed me the pistol. And I held it exactly as he showed me, my fingers tight against the grip. The metal was warm now—from my hands or his, I wasn’t sure. Steele stood behind me again, close enough that the back of my gown brushed against him when I breathed too deeply.

His hand slid to my waist once more, guiding me into position. The pressure was light, almost impersonal.

Almost.

“Now,” he said softly, his breath stirring the loose tendrils at my temple. “On the exhale.”

I squeezed the trigger. The crack of the shot reverberated through the chamber. I blinked, startled to find the revolver still in my hands—and a neat hole just left of the center ring.

“Not bad,” Steele said, his tone unreadable.

I lowered the revolver, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

The silence stretched as he remained behind me, his breath still close, too close. I felt his gaze before I turned to face him, my hands still trembling around the weapon. “I hated that.”

“Did you?”

“Yes,” I said. But it came out softer than I intended.

“I believe you,” he murmured as he watched me—not with amusement or condescension, but something deeper. More dangerous. And then his gaze dropped to my mouth, and I forgot how to breathe.

This was not supposed to happen. I had come here for instruction. To learn how to defend myself. But my pulse now thrummed like a bird in a cage, fluttering with every second he did not look away.

He whispered my name. “Rosalynd.”

It was not a question. Not a command. Merely my name, spoken with quiet certainty. It struck somewhere low in my stomach.

He bent forward, slowly, as if unwilling to startle me. As if giving me every chance to stop him.

I should have stepped away.

I should have said something. Anything.

I did none of those things.

The space between us narrowed, our breaths mingling in the dim lamplight. And then, as his lips hovered just above mine?—

“My, my, my! What have we here?”

I jumped back, my breath catching in my throat.

A tall man stood at the gallery threshold. Older than Steele by a good ten years, his evening coat immaculately tailored, a half-burned cigar smoldering between two fingers. muttonchop whiskers framed a face too clever by half, and his eyes—sharp, amused, unbothered—flicked from me to Steele, then back again.