Page 51 of Cinderella and the Daddy

He hesitates, then pulls on his shirt and leaves the garage.

I've become a master of deception these past two weeks. When the morning nausea hits, I blame it on Mac needing an early walk. When certain smells make me gag—like the cologne one of the guards drowns himself in—I claim allergies. The constant exhaustion? "Still adjusting to the schedule here."

Luka watches me sometimes with this look, like he's cataloging changes he can't quite name. Yesterday, he caught me with my hand pressed to my stomach, and I had to play it off as cramps. The concern that flashed across his face almost broke my resolve to keep the secret.

But I can't tell him. Not yet. Not until I figure out what this means for us—if there even is an "us" or if I'm just the captive who's carrying his child.

The small snacks help. I've hidden crackers everywhere—nightstand, bathroom, even the garage. So far, it's working. But I know it's only a matter of time before someone notices Ican't stand the smell of coffee anymore or that I'm suspiciously avoiding the wine at dinner.

Luka finds me in the kitchen about thirty minutes later.

"I want to learn," I say.

"Learn what?"

"How to shoot. Correctly, I mean. Not just hold the gun and hope for the best." I meet his eyes, letting him see the determination there. "If I'm staying, I won't be helpless. If by some horrific set of circumstances I’m the one that has to protect Leo, I want to know how."

He nods. "You sure?"

"Dead sure."

The corner of his mouth quirks up in what might almost be a smile. "Tomorrow. Early."

The next morning finds us in the compound's private range. Luka sets up targets and then checks the weapons.

“Ready?” He picks up the gun he gave to me.

"Stance first," he says, positioning himself behind me. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight forward, like you're leaning into a strong wind."

His hands settle on my hips, adjusting my position. But there's nothing clinical about the way his touch makes my skin burn, even through layers of clothing.

"Breathe," he murmurs, his voice low and rough near my ear. "In, out, hold. Fire on the exhale, right at that moment when your lungs are empty and everything's still."

I try to focus on his instructions, but it's impossible to ignore the way his body cages mine. The heat radiating from his chest against my back is making my panties wet. His hands move to my arms, adjusting my grip, making sure my sight picture is perfect.

“Now,” he orders.

I pull the trigger, my arms jerking up.

"Again," he says when I miss the center ring. "Don't anticipate the recoil. Just let it happen. Relax. You’re too stiff.”

I do as he says. Inhale… exhale.

This time, the bullet punches through the target's center.

I can't suppress the small sound of satisfaction that escapes me. Behind me, Luka makes a noise that might be approval, but when I glance back at him, there's something hungry in his eyes that has nothing to do with marksmanship.

"Better," he says.

That familiar low growl of desire brushes over my skin.

“You keep looking at me like that, and I might shoot your toe off,” I murmur.

He mutters in Russian.

We continue for another hour, and I'm proud when I can hit the paper target consistently, even if my grouping looks like I sneezed while shooting.

"Better," Luka says when I manage to put three shots within the same general zip code. "You're anticipating the recoil less."