Page 38 of C is For Corruption (Horsemen #3)

I could feel her behind me like a shadow, like a weight, like a lie waiting to be exposed.

It wasn’t guilt. I didn’t feel guilty. Not for putting her in her place.

Not for reminding her where she stood. This was something else.

Something twisted. Like I was being baited.

Everything about her was just another performance—designed to pull sympathy and make people trust her.

So they wouldn’t see the knife until it was in their back.

The girl at the front desk, mid-twenties, with glossy lip balm and the kind of smile that had probably gotten her a lot of tips, looked up when we came in.

“Morning!” she chirped. “You booked lane four, right?” I gave her a curt nod. She glanced between us, smile widening, like this was a fucking date. “We’ve got a couple’s discount running right now—”

“No,” I said before Victoria could open her mouth. My voice was smooth. Friendly, even. “That’s not necessary.”

The girl blinked. “It’s free ammo for—”

“Still no,” I said, giving her the kind of look that made people stop asking questions.

I didn’t look at Victoria, but I felt her flinch. A little twitch beside me, like that’d actually landed somewhere soft.

Good.

We got our lane. Back corner, mostly soundproofed. I dumped the gear bag on the bench and opened it without a word. Victoria stood awkwardly off to the side until I tossed her a set of ear protection and a pair of safety glasses. She caught them, barely.

“You remember how to hold it, or are we starting from scratch?” I asked, pulling one of the pistols from the bag and checking the chamber out of habit.

She didn’t answer, just stepped closer, hesitant, and reached for the gun like it might bite her.

I grabbed her wrist before she could touch it.

Not hard, just enough pressure to make a point.

“Wrong,” I said, tone clipped. “You don’t just reach for it like it’s a damn soda can. Respect the weapon. Always. Got it?”

Her eyes flicked up to mine. “Got it.” I handed it to her this time, grip-first. She took it. Her fingers curled around it almost right. Almost.

“Better,” I said. “You’re pinching the grip. It’s a gun, not a wine glass, Princess .” I moved around behind her and adjusted her stance with the same cold precision I’d use on a street guy who needed a refresher. Hands on her hips. Tap to her shoulder. A tug on her elbow to keep the line clean.

Her scent hit me then. Something floral. Leftover shampoo from Craig’s shower, maybe. I stepped back quickly, jaw tight.

“Safety?” I asked. She blinked, then fumbled for it. She clicked it on, but her grip shifted. I saw the mistake before it even happened.

“If that were loaded, you’d have just flagged your foot,” I snapped.

“Try again. Grip first. Then safety.” She swallowed whatever she’d been about to say and did it over.

Then I made her do it again. And again. Until her knuckles were red and her arms were trembling.

Next, I pulled out the field strip mat and laid it down.

“You’re cleaning this before we fire it,” I said, placing the disassembled pistol parts in front of her.

“And putting it back together after. You remember how?” She gave a slight nod, and I just stared until she sat down and started the process.

It went okay at first. Hands steady. Movements tentative, but close to right.

Until she got to the firing pin. She froze, and I waited. “Where’s the pin?” I asked, voice flat.

Her lips parted. “I—I thought I—”

“Not doing that very well today, are we?” She looked up, eyes flashing with something close to frustration.

I leaned against the table and crossed my arms. “You think you’re ready for any of this?

You can’t even clean the damn weapon right.

Forget pulling a trigger—what’re you gonna do when someone’s trying to kill you and your gun jams because you forgot a part? ”

She stared at the pieces in front of her, blinking fast. “You don’t have to be this cruel,” she muttered.

I barked a dry laugh. “Yeah? You want things to be how they were before? Maybe if you figure out how to get my brother out of the hole in the ground, we can work on that.” Her head snapped up, and I saw it—pain.

Guilt. A flash of something twisted in my chest before I shoved it down again.

“You think if you train hard enough, learn enough, suck up to the right people, you’ll finally belong?

” I sneered. “That’s not how this works.

This isn’t Girl Scouts. This is blood. This is fire.

And if you don’t get it perfect, someone dies .

” I stepped closer, crowding into her space just enough to make her look up at me.

“So get it right ,” I said. “Or get the fuck out .”

She said nothing. Just turned back to the weapon and picked up the pin with shaking fingers.

Put it in place. But that didn’t mean I stopped watching her hands like they might suddenly turn into claws.

She finished the reassembly, slower this time.

Careful. Like she knew if she slipped again, I’d pounce.

And I would.

Because if she was going to show me who she really was, it’d happen here. Under pressure. In the grind. And if she didn’t? Then I’d keep turning the screws until she cracked. Because sooner or later, everyone does.