Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
I just want to touch the guns. I just want to feel them in my hand, see how heavy they are.
I have to admit, I didn’t know guns were so gorgeous.
I lift each gun, feeling the substantial weight of them in my palm. I don’t know why I ever bothered with throwing knives when guns were an option. I caress the heavy barrels, finger the finely crafted details. I can’t believe I’ve gone this long in my life without ever holding a gun. I’ve been missing out.
I doubt these are all the weapons he has on his property, but I’m pretty happy with what I can play around with for now.
There’s a compact pistol that feels like I'm holding a stick of dynamite in my hands. I place it back in the box, gingerly. Whoa. That thing’s deadly.
Next up, a revolver. Don’t know the name but it’s exquisite. I feel energy pulse through me, and for one brief moment, imagine electricity lighting up my veins like live wires. I’m not tired anymore when I hold the revolver.
There are handguns and shotguns, some that make me think of private investigators wearing suits and trench coats, others that look like they should be strapped to the backs of a military brigade.
I’m not dumb enough to load any of them. I put down the revolver and pick up another gun, imagine pointing it at the target. How hard is it to pull the trigger?
“Come at me,” I whisper, remembering what Cain muttered at Troy last night, his words laden with a deadly threat. “Come at me, bro.”
I pull the trigger just to see what it feels like.
Fire erupts from the gun.
I fall to the floor, too stunned at first to feel the pain in my shoulder. My ears ring from the deafening roar of the shot, and the instinctive fight or flight part of me feels like I should run for cover.
The door to the firing range bursts open, and I know before I even look to see who it is, Cain Master’s entered the arena.
Great.
I am in so much damn trouble it isn’t even funny.
I place the gun gingerly down on the ground—too little, too late?—and leap to my feet. “I had no idea it was loaded!” I say in my defense. I flail my arms defensively, so he doesn’t actually murder me with his bare hands, but I suspect if he really wants to, my waving arms aren’t going to hold him back.
I knew the first time I saw Cain that he was capable of anger. I knew it from the moment our eyes first met, when I saw a world of hurt and rage simmering in his eyes. I knew it when we began hunting for his sister, and I saw him control and harness that anger when he killed the bartender last night.
But this… this isn’t controlled anger. It’s nothing but unadulterated, boiling hot rage, and he’s coming straight at me.
He has to stop at some point, I reason. He has to… stop walking and… halt.
But he doesn’t.
When he reaches me, he grabs me by the upper arms and shakes me, hard enough to make my teeth rattle, before he shoves me up against the wall with a growl I feel deep in my belly. Cold concrete hits my back as his fingers grasp my chin. I’ve never wanted to look away from someone so badly in my life, but his grip on my chin makes that impossible.
He says something to me, but my ears are ringing from the sound of the shot and the blood pounding in my head. I shake my head to signal to him that I can’t hear him.
He raises his voice so loudly, my stomach clenches.
“You think you can shoot a gun? With no training, no experience, nothing to keep you safe? Do you?” he snarls. A vein throbs in his temple, his nostrils flare. I cringe. What else am I supposed to do? I’m wilting under the heat of his glare, and I totally deserve this. Shooting a loaded gun is really fucking stupid. I wouldn’t blame him if he made me leave or fired me or made me go peel potatoes in the kitchen, or whatever it is a military guy does to someone who’s royally fucked up.
My voice shakes. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know it was loaded.”
My ears still ring. I want to cover them to still the aching reverberation.
His eyes are sharp as ice, blue rivulets of churning fury, as he holds my gaze.
“Who gave you the gun?”
“I—I don’t know his name. A guy with a shaved head? He was outside.”
“Claude.”
Still holding my gaze, he reaches for his cell phone and makes a call. I’m trembling, scared of what he’ll do next, scared to say a thing. He puts it on speakerphone.