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"Relax here," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man who probably knows fifty ways to kill with his thumbs alone. "Power comes from being loose, not rigid."
I nod, feeling the weight of their expectations. Three hours ago, I was sketching in my studio, the afternoon light spilling across my canvas. Now I'm learning how to put bullets through imaginary men's hearts because this is what being a Zhukov bride means—adapting, surviving, transforming.
I raise the Glock again. The metal warming to my skin. I think of Mikhail's face this morning when he mentioned these lessons—the slight softening around his eyes, the way his jaw clenched when he said, "I won't always be there to protect you."
Inhale. Half-exhale. Squeeze.
The recoil vibrates up my arm, but I'm ready for it this time. I fire again. And again. And again. Until the magazine empties and silence floods back into the space between heartbeats.
Vanya hits the button to retrieve the target, his expression unreadable. When the paper slides toward us, I see his eyebrows lift incrementally—the Zhukov equivalent of shocked disbelief. Eight holes cluster tightly in the center mass, with one through the head.
"Where did you learn to shoot like this?" he demands, suspicion edging his voice.
I shrug, a small smile playing on my lips. "My father may have been paranoid enough to keep me in a gilded cage, but he wasn't stupid enough to leave me defenseless. I've been shooting since I was thirteen."
Yuri makes a sound that might almost be a laugh. "The boss didn't mention this."
"Mikhail doesn't know everything about me," I reply, setting the empty gun down with newfound confidence. "Not yet."
The air shifts as we move from the firing range to the training mats. Here, Yuri takes the lead, demonstrating escapes from various holds and grabs. His movements are fluid, economical, and deadly in their precision. I watch, absorbing every detail, every subtle weight shift and leverage point.
"Remember," he says as his massive hands encircle my wrist in a demonstration, "you are small, but this is an advantage. Use their strength against them."
I nod, committing his words to memory along with the movements. When it's my turn to practice, I throw myself into each technique with a fervor that surprises even me. My body responds with an eagerness I hadn't anticipated as if it's been waiting for this permission to fight back.
"Good," Vanya nods after I successfully break free from his hold for the third time. "But in real situations, you must be faster. More vicious."
I wipe sweat from my brow, auburn strands of hair sticking to my temples. "Show me again."
Hours pass like this—learning the language of violence through repetition and muscle memory. By the time we finish, every inch of me aches, but there's a new awareness humming beneath my skin. I understand my body differently now—not just as something to be adorned or desired, but as a weapon I can wield.
As we gather our things to leave, Vanya's phone buzzes. He checks it, his expression shifting minutely before he looks at me.
"Mikhail is back early," he says. "He wants to see your progress."
My heart quickens, though I'm not sure if it's from apprehension or something else entirely—something dangerous that flutters whenever I think of those ice-blue eyes watching me.
I reload the Glock with steady hands, waiting for my husband to arrive, wondering what he'll make of this new version of his bride—one who can put nine bullets exactly where she intends them to go.
The heavy door to the firing range opens with a metallic groan, and I feel Mikhail's presence before I see him. Theair seems to thicken, charged with that particular intensity he carries like a second skin. His footsteps are measured and deliberate—the predatory grace of a man who owns everything he surveys.
"Show me," he says simply, his voice cutting through the underground chamber's stale air.
I don't turn around immediately. Instead, I steady my breathing, feeling the weight of Mikhail's gaze on my shoulders like a physical touch. When I finally face him, his expression is unreadable—that careful mask he wears so well. But his eyes... his eyes are alive with something I can't quite name.
He's changed from his business suit into dark jeans and a black henley that clings to the muscled planes of his chest. Even dressed down, he radiates danger. A thin line of blood decorates his knuckles—fresh enough that I wonder what kind of meeting he just left.
"New target," I tell Vanya, my voice steadier than I feel.
The paper silhouette slides into position with mechanical precision. Twenty-five yards this time—farther than before. I'm acutely aware of Mikhail moving closer, positioning himself just behind my left shoulder. Close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with something darker—gunpowder, perhaps. Or violence.
"Breathe,kisa," he murmurs, and the endearment in his accented voice sends heat spiraling down my spine. "Let me see what my wife can do."
The possessiveness in those words should annoy me. Instead, it ignites something fierce and hungry in my chest. I raise the Glock, muscle memory from countless afternoons at my father's private range flooding back. But this is different. This isn't about appeasing a paranoid father's fears—this is about survival in a world where being weak means being dead.
I empty the magazine in a steady rhythm, each shot deliberate and controlled. The familiar burn fills my nostrils as smoke curls from the barrel. When the target returns, silence stretches between us like a held breath.
Ten shots. Ten holes clustered so tightly in the center that they could be covered by a playing card.