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"Bozhe moy," Vanya breathes, his earlier composure finally cracking.
Mikhail says nothing for a long moment. I can feel him studying the target, then me, his analytical mind processing this new information. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a note I've never heard before—something that might be pride.
"Again," he commands. "But this time, I want to see you move."
Yuri sets up multiple targets at varying distances while Mikhail watches with the focused attention of a man accustomed to evaluating assets.
"Scenario," Mikhail says, his voice taking on the cold authority I've heard him use with his men. "Three hostiles. You have limited ammunition. Show me how you survive."
I feel my pulse quicken, but not from fear. Something darker unfurls in my chest—anticipation, perhaps. Or the thrill of finally being seen as more than a decorative acquisition.
"How many rounds?" I ask, checking the fresh magazine Yuri slides across the table.
"Six," Mikhail says without hesitation. "And you're moving from cover to cover."
The training area transforms before my eyes. What moments ago felt like a sterile underground range now pulses with imagined danger. I can almost see the shadows where enemies might hide and feel the weight of phantom threats closing in.
I take position behind the concrete barrier, my heart hammering a steady rhythm against my ribs. The first targetstands fifteen yards out, the second at twenty, the third angled behind partial cover at twenty-five. In a real scenario, I'd be dead before I could blink. But this isn't real—not yet.
"Begin," Mikhail's voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade.
I move.
The first shot takes the nearest target center mass as I pivot toward the second position. My feet find their rhythm across the concrete floor, muscle memory from years of ballet translating into fluid motion. Duck behind cover. Breathe. Rise. Fire.
The second target drops.
But it's the third that will test me—the one positioned to simulate a sniper's advantage. I sprint across the open space, feeling exposed and vulnerable. In my peripheral vision, I catch Mikhail's stillness, the way he tracks my movement with a predatory focus.
I slide behind the final barrier, concrete scraping against my shoulder. One shot left. One chance.
I close my eyes for a heartbeat, visualizing the angle, the distance. When I emerge from cover, the world narrows to the space between the gun's sight and my target's center mass.
The final shot echoes through the chamber like thunder.
When the smoke clears and the targets return, the silence stretches taut as a wire. Three clean kills. Two rounds to spare.
"Where?" Mikhail's voice is deadly quiet, but I hear something else underneath—something that makes my skin flush hot. "Where did you learn to move like that?"
I set the gun down carefully, meeting his gaze without flinching. "You're not the only one with secrets, husband."
His eyes narrow, and I watch him process this new variable in whatever equation he's been calculating since our wedding day. Vanya and Yuri exchange glances, but neither speaks.
"My father made sure I could defend myself if his enemies ever found me. Ballet for grace. Shooting for precision. Wing Chun for when bullets aren't available."
Mikhail steps closer, and I fight the urge to retreat.
"Dangerous," he murmurs, though whether he's referring to my skills or something else entirely, I can't tell.
"Good," I whisper back, holding his stare. "I'd hate to be boring."
Something shifts in his expression—a crack in that carefully maintained control. For a moment, I glimpse the man beneath the monster, and what I see there makes my breath catch.
Heat. Hunger. And something that looks almost like respect.
Chapter 16
Mikhail