Page 44 of Mated to the Mountain Bear

Ben pales for a second, looking stunned.

“I mean, is he letting me know this is his land?” I sound like an idiot. “Will he be pissed off that we’re out here?”

Ben gives me a teasing smile. “I thinkthis grizzlymight be willing to share with you.”

He’s mocking me, Mr. Hot Mountain Man, who probably wrestles bears for fun.

I roll my eyes, and with one last look at the intriguing markings, turn to face my reluctant bodyguard slash teacher slash major crush.

“Okay, so where do you want me?”

Ben mutters a curse, dragging his hand down over his face, before lifting the gun into both hands and holding it out so I can examine it.

“First rule,” he says, handing me the unloaded rifle. The metal is colder and heavier than I expected. “Always assume it’s loaded. Always.”

I take it gingerly, like it might go off before I even touch it. “Okay.”

“Second rule. Never point it at anything you don’t intend to shoot.”

I nod, but internally, I’m confused. Isn’t it always pointing atsomething?

“You’d be surprised how many people forget when they’re nervous, so keep it low and away from me.” He moves behindme, adjusting my grip. “Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”

I’m tense, my shoulders drawn up tight. This close, I can feel the warmth radiating from his body as he manoeuvres me the way he wants me. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the clearing, and somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker hammers against bark.

“Relax,” he murmurs, hands on my shoulders, gently pressing down.

I take a breath, trying to follow his instructions, but it’s hard with his warm breath fanning against my cheek. He guides me into a proper stance, nudging my feet wider with his boot.

“Wider,” he says when I resist. “You need a stable base.”

“This feels weird.” I look over my shoulder, my words trailing off when I realise how close our faces are.

Our lips are inches apart.

If he just leans forward...

“It’ll feel natural with practice.” His hands cover mine on the rifle, adjusting my hold. “Keep the stock tight against your shoulder. When you fire, it’ll kick back. Be ready for it.”

I nod, feeling the movement against his chest. We’re pressed close, his body caging mine, and suddenly, the lesson feels like something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

“Breathe,” he instructs. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow and steady.”

I obey, feeling my ribs expand and contract, as I press my back to his front and follow his lead. We fit together perfectly.

“Good. Now, sight down the barrel. See the target?”

“Yes.” The word comes out breathless.

“Center it. Take your time.” He should step back and give me space, but he doesn’t move. “When you’re ready, squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull. Squeeze.”

I fire, the crack echoing across the clearing. Birds burst from nearby trees in a flurry of wings and alarmed calls. The shot goes wide, missing the target entirely. My heart is racing, and the blood rushing through my veins sings with excitement. The adrenaline rush is unexpected and thrilling. The urge to try again, less so.

“Again,” he says, reloading for me. “This time, don’t anticipate the recoil. Let it happen.”

We go through several rounds, each shot getting closer. I’m a quick learner if I do say so myself, adjusting based on his minimal corrections, and getting more comfortable with each shot.