Page 63 of Claimed By the Psychos

I'm already moving before my brain catches up, because firing range means guns, and guns mean that beautiful piece of engineering I need to get my hands on. Felix follows with a sigh that suggests he's only coming to make sure Carlisle doesn't murder me. Or fuck me. Or both. Hard to tell.

The basement is nothing like I expected. Instead of creepy concrete and suspicious stains, it's all high-tech panels and professional-grade everything. The range itself stretches out longer than should be possible, with lanes separated by bulletproof glass and targets that can be adjusted with the touch of a button.

"Holy shit," I breathe, taking in the wall of weapons displayed like art. Pistols, rifles, things that definitely aren't legal for civilians to own, and—there she is. The Miller-Borne, gleaming under the lights like she's posing for a centerfold.

"Pick your poison," Carlisle says, gesturing to the arsenal with obvious pride.

My hands shake slightly as I reach for the Miller-Borne, lifting it with the reverence it deserves. The weight is perfect, balanced like a dancer who knows exactly where their center of gravity lives.

"Here." Carlisle moves behind me, his hands settling on my arms to adjust my stance. The contact is electric, shooting through my nerves like lightning looking for ground. His chestpresses against my back, solid and warm, and his breath ghosts across my neck when he speaks. "Feet wider. You want a stable base for the recoil."

"I know what I'm doing," I manage, though my voice comes out breathier than intended.

"I'm sure you do." His hands slide down to my hips, adjusting the angle, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would be really fucking embarrassing. "But even experts can learn new tricks."

Felix clears his throat loud enough to wake the dead. "Maybe give her room to squeeze the trigger."

Carlisle steps back, but not before I catch his smirk in my peripheral vision. "By all means."

I take a breath, center myself, and squeeze the trigger.

The burst is perfect. Three rounds, so close together they make a single hole in the target's center mass. The recoil barely registers, the gun's engineering eating it up like it's nothing.

"Fuck, that's good," I moan, and immediately wish I'd chosen different words because Carlisle makes a sound that's almost a purr.

"Again," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes it less suggestion and more command.

I empty the magazine in controlled bursts, each one finding its mark with surgical accuracy. When the gun clicks empty, I'm breathing hard, adrenaline and satisfaction making me giddy.

"My turn." Carlisle takes the gun with careful hands, reloading with movements so smooth they look choreographed.

What happens next is less shooting and more performance art. He doesn't just hit the targets, he paints with bullets, creating patterns that shouldn't be possible with burst fire. A smiley face. A heart. His own fucking initials.

"Show off," I mutter, but I'm impressed and we both know it.

"Your turn to show off," he counters, offering me a different gun. This one's a custom job, all matte black and modified components. "Let's see what you can really do, little killer."

Something about that term of endearment makes my heart flutter. Fuck this scent match bullshit, it's too damn strong.

What follows is the most fucked up flirtation I've ever been part of. We trade weapons and techniques, each trying to outdo the other. I shoot out the letters of my name. He shoots them out again in cursive. I put a bullet through the hole of another bullet. He does it blind.

"You're insane," I tell him, laughing despite myself.

"Clinically," he agrees cheerfully, a dangerous light in his eyes. "But you're keeping up beautifully."

Felix has been silent through all of this, watching from his position by the door like a disapproving parent at a school dance. Finally, he pushes off the wall.

"My turn."

Carlisle's eyebrows rise as Felix selects a simple Glock, nothing fancy, nothing modified. Just a standard service weapon that looks almost boring compared to the high-tech toys we've been playing with.

What happens next makes both Carlisle and me shut the fuck up.

Felix doesn't showboat. He doesn't make patterns or play games. He just shoots with a mechanical precision that's somehow more terrifying than any fancy display. Every shot perfect. Every grouping identical. Like a machine designed for the sole purpose of putting bullets exactly where they need to go.

When he sets the gun down, the silence is deafening.

"I'm done," he announces, and walks out without another word.