Page 38

The Acropolis shooting range wasn't what I expected.

Instead of the sterile, fluorescent-lit concrete bunker I'd imagined, the space looked more like an upscale hotel gym that happened to have targets instead of treadmills.

Polished wood floors gleamed under ambient lighting, and what appeared to be actual artwork decorated the walls.

Gun oil and cordite tinged the air despite expensive filtration, tickling my nostrils with their metallic, chemical promise of violence.

"People who kill for a living appreciate aesthetics too," Luka said, catching my surprise. "Just because we shoot things doesn't mean we want to do it in a dungeon."

Lo had left us to make arrangements for tomorrow's funeral, promising to return with "toys and boys" which I gathered meant weapons and backup. That left Luka and me alone in this strange, beautiful space designed exclusively for practicing how to end human lives .

I couldn't shake the image of Michael's body hanging from that shower rod.

Just days ago he'd been alive, planning his wedding.

Now we were preparing to attend his funeral, though attend hardly captured the tactical mission we were planning.

Michael deserved proper mourning, not to serve as bait in Prometheus's sick game.

My brain could label my emotions, but naming them didn't diffuse their power.

They boiled under my skin, demanding action I wasn't trained to take.

Luka led me toward a glass wall separating the lounge area from the actual range. He punched a code into a sleek panel, and the door slid open with a soft hiss. Inside, several shooting lanes stretched out, each with its own digital target system.

"We've got the place to ourselves," Luka said, moving toward a black cabinet. He placed his palm against a scanner, revealing an impressive array of weaponry. "Benefit of being public enemy number one. Nobody wants to risk running into us."

My stomach twisted as he examined various handguns before selecting a matte black pistol.

"Glock 19," he said, his inspection of the weapon hypnotically efficient. Magazine out, chamber checked, barrel examined, trigger tested—all in under fifteen seconds. "Perfect for beginners."

I stared at the gun. Until now, Luka's world of violence existed in some parallel universe to my therapy practice.

Now that parallel universe collapsed into mine, sixteen ounces of metal designed solely to punch holes in human bodies.

My brain helpfully supplied that this cognitive dissonance was perfectly normal under the circumstances.

Luka handed me ear protection. "The goal isn't to turn you into a killer. It's to give you options. Sometimes survival is the only form of healing available. "

For the next twenty minutes, Luka walked me through safety protocols, surprisingly patient. The cognitive whiplash nearly gave me vertigo: yesterday I helped people process trauma, today I learned to inflict it. The irony? I'd never felt safer than with this killer teaching me how to harm.

"You've taught people before," I observed as he adjusted my grip.

"A few times. Usually we recruit people who already know how to shoot."

"You'd make an excellent instructor," I said. "Patient. Clear."

"Murder skills, transferable to education. Who knew?" His lips quirked. "Should I update my LinkedIn? 'Professional killer seeks teaching position. References available upon threat.'"

The gun seemed alien in my hands, both heavier and lighter than expected. My palms slicked with sweat against the textured grip, my heartbeat drumming in my fingertips where they touched cold metal designed for death.

"Ready to load it?" Luka asked.

I nodded, though my heart was racing. He stepped behind me, chest nearly pressed to my back as he guided my hands.

"Magazine goes in like this." His breath was warm against my ear as we slid it into place with a definitive click. "Now rack the slide."

His hands covered mine, helping me chamber a round. The mechanical sound made me flinch.

"Locked and loaded," he murmured. "How does it feel?"

"Terrifying," I admitted. "Powerful. Wrong."

"Good." He adjusted my stance, hands lingering on my hips. "That means you respect what it can do."

When it came time to fire, he positioned me carefully with my feet apart, elbows bent, grip firm but not rigid.

His touch remained professional, yet carried that hint of intimacy we'd reestablished before leaving the apartment.

This morning's distance seemed fully bridged now, replaced by a focused connection.

"Squeeze, don't pull," he instructed through the ear protection. "Nice and easy."

I took a breath, aimed, and squeezed.

The gun bucked against my palms, vibration rattling up my arms and into my shoulder socket as the shot went wide. Acrid gunpowder stung my nostrils and coated the back of my throat, metallic and chemical.

"Not bad," Luka said generously. "Again. This time, anticipate the recoil."

I fired again. And again. Each shot came easier, my body adjusting to the rhythm. After a full magazine, I'd hit the target more often than not, though my grouping was terrible.

"Not a natural, but definitely better than I expected," Luka said with a small smile, acknowledging my previous reluctance without pushing.

"That's generous of you," I said, carefully setting down the empty gun, still uncomfortable with the whole concept despite the necessity. "I still hope I never have to use one for real."

He ejected the magazine and checked the chamber. "That's the goal. This is just insurance." He paused, then asked, "Want to see how it's really done?"

There was something boyish in his expression, excitement mixed with the desire to show off. I nodded, curious despite my moral qualms about firearms.

Luka selected a different gun, movements flowing like water. He barely seemed to aim before firing—bang, bang, bang—each shot punching through the target's center so fast the individual sounds blurred together. He switched to a second target, then a third .

In under thirty seconds, he'd put perfect groupings in five different targets at varying distances.

"Holy shit," I breathed.

He grinned, ejecting the magazine with a flourish. "That's just the warm-up. Watch this."

He hit a button that sent targets sliding left and right at different speeds on tracks. Then he did something with the control panel that made my jaw drop. The lights dimmed dramatically, leaving only emergency lighting. The targets were barely visible.

"Luka, you can't possibly—"

He grabbed two guns this time, one in each hand, and proceeded to hit every moving target in near-darkness. The muzzle flashes lit his face in split-second bursts, revealing intense concentration that was somehow incredibly sexy.

"Now you're just showing off," I said.

Nothing to see here. Just a therapist observing excellent motor control and precision. Nothing to do with how incredibly hot it was watching him command deadly weapons like they were extensions of his body. Nothing at all.

"I'm just getting started." He holstered one gun and pulled out a knife. "Want to see something really impressive?"

Without waiting for an answer, he threw the knife at a target twenty feet away. It hit dead center. Then, in one fluid motion, he quick-drew his gun and put six shots in a perfect circle around the knife blade.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered, adjusting myself discreetly.

"Still not impressed?" He was fully in his element now, eyes bright with excitement. "Okay, how about this?"

He set up a playing card on a target holder, then walked back to the fifty-foot mark.

"You're not seriously going to— "

He shot the card in half. Vertically.

"That's impossible," I said, walking over to examine the card. Sure enough, split clean down the middle.

"Eight years of practice," he said, coming up behind me. "I once made a shot from 1,400 meters in high wind. Saved Jane's life, actually. She said I was showing off then, too."

"Were you?"

"Maybe a little." He pressed against my back, arms coming around to position my hands on his gun. "But mostly I just like being good at something. Really good. Best in North America, actually."

"Best in North America?" I turned in his arms. "That's quite a claim."

The light in his eyes dimmed, the playfulness bleeding away. For a moment, he looked lost, like he'd forgotten where he was. His hands stilled on the weapon, then resumed their movement. All the fluid grace I'd been admiring was gone, replaced by something cold.

I wanted to reach for him, but something in his posture warned me away. Despite our closeness this morning, despite everything we'd shared last night, he seemed suddenly distant. Unreachable. As if he’d opened a door inside him that he couldn't close.

He set the gun down carefully and turned to face me, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to be honest."

I set the ear protection down, giving him my full attention. "Of course."

"Do you actually want to be with me?" The question came out matter-of-fact, though I could see the tension in his jaw, the slight pulse visible at his temple.

His eyes, usually so carefully guarded, held a nakedness that made my chest ache.

"Sexually, I mean. It's fine if you don't. I just need to know where we stand. "

"I... Of course I do," I said, surprised he could doubt it after what we'd shared last night.

"Then why didn't you come after me this morning when I pulled away?" His voice remained steady, but his hands had curled into loose fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension. The question hung between us, heavy with unspoken hurt.

The question hit me like a revelation. Of course. How had I missed it? He'd pulled away, expecting me to pursue him, to prove I actually wanted him. And I, thinking I was being respectful, had given him exactly what he feared most—confirmation that I'd walk away at the first sign of difficulty.