Page 65 of Bratva Prisoner
His steady energy behind me helps calm my racing heart. When he places his hands over mine to adjust my grip, the heat in his touch anchors me to the present moment instead of letting me spiral into traumatic memories.
“Better?” he asks.
“Better.”
We spend the next hour on basic handling—loading, unloading, safety procedures, and proper stance. By the time we move to actual shooting, I’m feeling more confident and less likely to panic at the sound of gunfire.
“Remember what I taught you about breathing,” Maksim says as I line up my first shot. “Slow inhale, hold, squeeze the trigger on the exhale.”
The first shot goes wide and misses the target completely. So does the second. And the third.
“Don’t get frustrated,” he advises. “This takes practice.”
“I’m terrible at this.”
“You’re learning.”
By the end of the session, I’m actually hitting the target with some consistency, though my groupings are still scattered across the paper. Maksim seems pleased with the progress, but I know I have a long way to go before I’ll be truly competent.
“Tomorrow we’ll work on accuracy,” he promises as we clean up. “There’s a technique that will help you hit the bullseye consistently.”
“What kind of technique?”
“You’ll see.”
The next day’s session starts the same way, with me struggling to group my shots in any meaningful pattern. Maksim watches patiently as I empty magazine after magazine with mediocre results, offering suggestions for improvement that help marginally but don’t solve the fundamental problem.
“I think I know what the issue is,” he finally announces. “You’re overthinking the mechanics instead of trusting your instincts.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come here.” He positions himself behind me with his chest pressed against my back as his arms come around me to guide the pistol. “Stop trying to aim with your eyes and start aiming with your whole body.”
His breath tickles my ear as he speaks, and the solidness of his body against mine makes concentration nearly impossible. When his hands cover mine on the grip and he adjusts my position, every nerve ending in my body screams to life.
“Feel the weight of the weapon,” he tells me. “Let it become an extension of yourself instead of something foreign you’re trying to control.”
The low rumble of his voice, combined with his proximity, sends heat pooling in my stomach. When he helps me raise the pistol to firing position, his hips press against mine, making my breath catch in my throat.
“Now breathe with me,” he instructs. “In… hold… and squeeze.”
The shot rings out, and this time, it hits the target dead center. But I barely notice the accuracy because all of my attention is focused on the way Maksim’s body feels pressed against mine.
“Perfect,” he praises.
We repeat the process several more times, and each shot finds its mark while the tension between us builds to an almost unbearable level. His body molds against mine even more witheach instruction, and his hands guide mine with increasing intimacy.
“Again,” he orders.
This time, when we go through the breathing exercise, his lips brush against my ear during the final instruction. The contact is barely there, but it’s enough to make a soft moan escape before I can pull it back.
Maksim goes completely still behind me, and his hands tighten on my hip bones. For a moment, neither of us moves or speaks.
“Alyssa,” he finally grits out.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
