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Rhodes---Gun Range

I inhale deeply, steadying my pulse as I line my shot. It is second nature, the actions so ingrained in me that they come as naturally as blinking. I don’t get rattled, not after years of service in a world where hesitation gets you killed. Yet here I am, at the shooting range, in an attempt to shake the cobwebs from my head. Trying to channel the man I once was, but I’m not sure it’ll work. My hand aches, the stiffness demanding to be felt. I don’t have the time to deal with old injuries, not after what had happened a few hours ago. I grip the firearm, fix my stance, and fire.

Pop, pop, pop.

Reload.

When Amelia had stepped into Parker’s coffee shop yesterday morning, I planned on asking her to sit with me. I felt like dinner had gone well and I wanted more of her. As I neared, Amelia’s face lifted, discolored with a bruise under her left eye and a limp to her normally steady gait. My steps halted at the look on her face. A slight shake of her head had me rooted where I stood.

She hadn’t wanted me to come closer, and if the panic written on her face was an indication, she also wasn’t in a head-space to talk about what had happened. It felt like Amelia just wanted her injuries to be ignored, and as badly as I wanted to go to her, I let her be. Someone had hurt her. I feel like she can usually hold her own, that to have someone leave a mark on her gorgeous skin meant that they overpowered her. I hadn’t seen her in a few days, having been out of town, but it clearly was not a fresh injury. The bruising had turned yellow. Coupled with the dark circles under her eyes?

Something is keeping her up at night. I’m not sure if it is the pain, annoyance, or both.

As my shots ring true, my mind wanders, imagining what had led to her injuries. Had she been in an accident? Was there a mugging outside of The Morning Medusa with Amelia caught in the middle? Men who laid hands on women in that way were the scum of the earth. Despite not being able to put my finger on what it was about her, I was fiercely protective of her in ways I didn’t want to rationalize.

She hadn’t come into the coffee shop this morning and that struck me as odd. Amelia is a woman of habit—I have never seen her miss a morning. Parker had told me that Amelia wasn’t some frail woman, most likely she’d just slept in, and confirmed that she could hold her own. That did nothing to silence the demons that begged to be released when I saw her yesterday morning. I would protect her, even if she refused.

Our date the other night went fantastically, I thought. She was a total stunner and the fact that she wasn’t in a relationship was mind-boggling. Amelia could bring anyone to their knees with a single arch of that bold brow that highlighted her grey eyes. And that dress she’d worn? The instant I returned home, I ran to the shower and jerked off to the dream of her kneeling at my feet, those plush lips wrapped around my cock.

I grab the other weapon from the table. It is my MK22. I settle into position, finding my targets, and resume firing.

She is mine. Someone had touched her, touched my woman. Suddenly, wanting to take my time and not spook her goes out the window. I know that to some it may seem sudden, but I know in my gut that she is everything. She deserves to walk down the street unworried, to live her life knowing she is safe. No, she is mine, and moving forward, I will ensure she knows exactly that.