Chapter 40

forty

KITANIA

For someone who had once dreamed of nothing more than safety, I’d never imagined it could come with so much boredom.

“You’re fidgeting again.” Tommas’ voice was warm but pointed as he peered over the top of the book he was holding. He’d been reading to me, but somewhere in the middle of the chapter, my mind had wandered.

I blushed, stilling my restless hands—though the effort didn’t last long before I began drumming my fingers on my thigh once more.

It had been three weeks since our movie date when everything had gone to hell. Three weeks wrapped in the warmth and safety of the penthouse, surrounded by my mates. Three weeks of watching reality TV and an endless amount of rom-coms to keep things lighthearted while I recovered.

And while those three weeks had been amazing in many ways, after having a small taste of freedom, of the life we could be having if not for the danger I was currently under, the four walls surrounding me felt as though they were closing in.

I was pretty sure I was going a little stir crazy.

Tommas closed the book in his hands with a soft thud that unfortunately made me jump. Ever since getting shot, I’d been… skittish. Loud noises easily startled me and my nightmares were back with a vengeance, only this time, they had more inspiration to fuel them.

Drinking more coffee just to get through the achingly long days had become habitual. Which, come to think of it, was most likely contributing to my restlessness.

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” he said, stretching his arms above his head. I eyed the book longingly; even if my attention had drifted, the sound of his voice had been a comfort.

“But I liked that part,” I lied, hoping he’d pick it back up. Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t fooled.

“You can finish it later. It’s clear you’ve got too much energy to sit still right now.”

He stood and held out a hand for me to take. I stared at it for a moment, then up at him questioningly. Despite not knowing what he had planned, I took it, letting him pull me up gently. Just like always, he was mindful of my healing injury.

“Where are we going?” I asked as he slung an arm carefully around my shoulders, standing on my good side so he wouldn’t accidentally bump or brush against my bandaged bicep. The warmth of his body seeped into mine, and I leaned into him just to soak up a little more.

Dimitri walked in from the kitchen as we passed, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. His eyes locked onto Tommas, and I could see the tension in his shoulders.

“Tommy,” he warned, the single word heavily weighted.

“Don’t worry. We’re not leaving the house, but Butterfly needs to spread her wings a little,” Tommas shot back with his usual confidence. He looked down at me with a reassuring smile and gave me a wink. I couldn’t help but notice how his green eyes sparkled with mischief.

Dimitri sighed and stared into his coffee. Of the four brothers, he was the most possessive, the most protective. He’d been the one to set up my strict recovery regimen, which included forbidding me from venturing outside until the threat from the Valentinos had been dealt with.

Still, I could see how badly he wanted me to be happy, even if it meant bending some of the rules he’d put in place.

“Just be careful,” Dimitri said, tone softer now.

With that, Tommy led me toward the elevator.

“Where are we going?” I questioned.

Despite the nervous flips my stomach was making, I was excited to do something that differed from the monotony of my normal day to day.

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”

He flashed a wide grin when I pouted.

“I think you enjoy my suffering,” I teased, and in an instant, Tommy’s mask slipped.

Capturing my chin, he tilted my face up toward his. “No, Butterfly, I don’t.” There were so many emotions flitting through his gaze. “I can’t stand to see you suffer, which is why I’m taking you to do something important.”

The doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing what looked like a luxury basement—an easy guess given the long elevator ride and the obvious lack of windows.

“Are we allowed to be down here?” I questioned, stepping out tentatively at his side.

He smirked. “Don’t worry. All of this is ours. Another one of our private floors. Owning the building comes with some perks.” He shot me a wink.

Wait… They owned the building?

I gaped, probably looking like a fish out of water.

“I’ve lovingly dubbed this room ‘The Man Cave.’” He swept an arm to motion to the room at large.

I spotted a small bar along one wall, and not one, but two pool tables, an air hockey table, and foosball. Leading me past a leather sectional sitting before the largest TV I’d ever seen; he stopped outside a steel door.

Tapping his fingers rapidly over a security panel, he unlocked it and tugged me inside. Automatic lights flicked on, revealing a full-fledged armory, and beyond that…

Tommas grinned like a kid in a candy store at Christmas time. “Welcome to the range.”

“Are you positive this is necessary?” I winced at the sight of the gun Tommas held out for me to take.

I’d never been a big fan of weapons. Not that I minded other people owning or using them, but if I were being honest, they always kind of frightened me.

I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of having something so powerful, so dangerous, so lethal , in my hands. Then again, after having been shot myself, a part of me argued that it would be nice to know how to defend myself, which was exactly the point Tommy had been trying to make while convincing me to let him teach me how to shoot.

“Of course it’s necessary,” Tommas said, losing some of his usual playfulness. “Kit, you need to be able to protect yourself if, for some reason, we’re not around or we’re incapacitated ourselves. Just think of it as another form of insurance.”

I looked at the gun, then at Tommy. His eyes were serious, almost pleading. He didn’t want to force this on me, but he believed it was important. With a deep breath, I reluctantly accepted the handgun. It was heavier than I’d expected, the metal cold and smooth. Memories of that night at the theater flashed in my mind—the loud crack of the shot, the searing pain in my arm, the fear that had devoured me whole.

Tommas must have seen the hesitation in my eyes because he placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “We’ll take it slow. You don’t even have to fire it today if you’re not ready.”

His reassurance eased some of the tension coiled in my chest. “Okay,” I said, though not entirely convinced.

He stepped behind me, his body close but not touching, and guided my hands to hold the weapon correctly. “First things first: always assume it’s loaded.”

For the next hour, he ran me through all the gun safety rules and taught me more than I’d ever wanted to know about firearms. To my surprise, I found the information fascinating. Knowing how the mechanisms worked, understanding the different parts and their functions—it all made the gun seem less like a magical object of death and more like a tool. A dangerous tool, but one that could be mastered with enough knowledge and practice.

Tommas was patient, never rushing me, and I relaxed. Just a little. Enough to appreciate the way he taught, the way he balanced his natural charm with the seriousness of the subject.

“Ready to give it a try?” he asked with a hint of hope. “Remember, it’s unloaded. This is just to get you used to the weight and feel of it in your hands.”

I took a deep breath and nodded. Handing me the firearm, he stepped back, giving me space, but stayed close enough that I could feel his presence as a buffer against my fear. I raised the gun, steadfastly ignoring the dull ache of my injury. Aiming at the target downrange, I followed his directions, practicing my grip and how to stand properly.

It was exhilarating and… frustrating .

“Do you feel more comfortable?” Tommas asked, moving beside me.

“I think so,” I admitted. “But taking aim and not pulling the trigger is just so… anticlimactic .”

He chuckled, the sound of it as smooth as warm honey. “Trust me, the real thing is a lot more exciting. But you’re doing great. The hardest part is getting over the initial fear.” He paused, then added, “It sounds like you’re ready to load it and give it a try. What do you say?”

I bit my lip, torn. Part of me wanted to run back to the safety of the penthouse, to dive under a blanket and into the book Tommy had been reading to me. But another part of me—the part that remembered how powerless I’d felt when I’d been kidnapped, and again when the Valentinos had bought me, and again when I’d been shot—wanted to seize this opportunity. To take control, even if just a little.

“Yes,” I said, surprising myself. “Let’s do it.”

Tommas’s grin was infectious. He took the gun from me and expertly dropped the empty magazine with practiced ease.

“One round,” he stated, showing me a single bullet before slipping it into the mag and popping it back into place. He racked the slide, checked that the safety was on. “Take your time. Aim for the center.”

He handed the gun back to me with a reverence that made the moment feel almost ceremonial. After gently placing a pair of earmuffs on me that had a built-in mic so I could still hear him, he moved behind me. Concentrating, mentally running through all I’d learned, I mimicked his movements from earlier, adjusting my grip and stance before flipping the safety off. Even though the target was only technically ten feet away, emotionally it seemed a million miles.

“Remember to breathe,” he coached softly. “As Mel Gibson said in the Patriot movie, ‘Aim small, miss small.’”

Inhaling deeply, I held it, then exhaled slowly and lined up my aim. My hands were steadier than expected, my mind quieter. The world shrank away and grew quiet as that center dot became my sole focus. Suddenly, I wasn’t looking at a piece of paper. I was glaring at Rocco. At Vincent.

Squeeze, don’t pull , I reminded myself.

The shot was louder than I anticipated, echoing in the enclosed space like a whip crack. My hands jerked from the recoil, and I let out a breath. Lowering the gun, I stared downrange at the perfect hole in the upper left-hand corner with a mix of relief, anxiety, and an almost jittery kind of excitement.

Sure, my aim was far from flawless, but I’d hit it. I’d actually shot something.

“Whoa!” I exclaimed.

He beamed with a feral gleam in his eyes. “Right?”

I couldn’t help but smile. The adrenaline coursing through me made my hands shake, but it wasn’t the same kind of fear that had gripped me before. This was something different, something more alive.

“Do you want to go again?” Tommas asked, his voice laced with encouragement.

I considered it, peering down at the gun. The weight of it no longer felt as burdensome, and the idea of getting another chance to improve was tantalizing. But my arm, still healing from the bullet wound, throbbed from the strain.

“Maybe just one more,” I said, not wanting to let this newfound courage slip away, but also aware of my physical limits.

I ended up shooting two more times, and though neither shot hit the target anywhere near the center, I was simply thrilled they both pierced the paper.

“Good job.” Tommy beamed, his smile crooked in all the right ways. “I knew you’d be a natural at this.”

I flourished under his praise, the grin on my face permanently affixed.

Finished with our impromptu training session, he took the gun from me and unloaded it with swift, practiced motions. He set it on a nearby counter and walked over to a cabinet.

“Tell you what,” he said, opening it to reveal several shiny brand-new handguns. “Take your pick.”

My eyes widened. Each one gleamed, pristine and lethally beautiful. “Are you serious?”

He shrugged with that casual nonchalance he wore so well. “You need something that fits you.”

I bit my lip, staring at the array of weapons. The thought of owning a gun, of having that kind of power and responsibility, was daunting. But there was also a thrill to it, that same sense of taking back control.

“Take your time and don’t be afraid to pick them up. See what feels best,” Tommas instructed, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

I inspected each of them before picking up a matte black pistol that looked a little smaller than the others. It was lighter, and the weight of it felt more balanced than the gun I’d just trained on. I could picture myself holding it with confidence someday, aiming and firing with precision. Maybe even defending myself if it ever came to that.

“This one.” I showed it to Tommas.

Uncrossing his arms, he straightened and took it from me, inspecting it himself. Those irresistible lips quirked to the side. “Excellent choice. It’s a good fit for someone with smaller hands. A lot easier to handle than what you’ve been practicing with.”

The way he looked at me, with approval and praise, warmed me from the inside out. That heat spread, and my perfume erupted.

Those same eyes darkened with visceral need, and he leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered, “But maybe you should test it, just to be sure. Come on.”

I let him guide me over to the range again, placing me front and center. The long line of his body pressed against my back, and his arms encircled me, aligning with mine, careful not to bump or rub against my injury while he helped me hold the gun.

Breath ghosted against my ear, his lips grazing the outer shell as he murmured, “How does that feel?”

My brain short-circuited momentarily, and I hummed. “You feel incredible.” I loved having him this close, every inch of us touching, his hard planes melding with my softness. My thoughts were barely coherent, the insatiable blaze within me climbing to new heights.

Tommy chuckled, and the low, deep, rich tone went straight to my clit. My thighs squeezed, and more of my perfume filled the air.

“I meant the gun, Butterfly, but my ego is damn pleased you enjoy having me this close.”

Sharp teeth nipped at my ear, and I gasped.

“I think I like you pressed against me a little too much.” My cheeks heated with the realization that my scent was positively saturating the room.

“No such thing.”

Our hands fell together, lowering the gun from where it was pointed downrange. The tension in my body didn’t release, though; it only coiled tighter as Tommas guided the weapon slowly, deliberately downward. He commanded every ounce of my attention, and my breath caught in my throat as I realized what he was doing.

He kissed the side of my neck, then grazed his nose along my skin and inhaled deeply. “Your scent is going to kill me,” he groaned, voice thick with yearning.

The cold metal of the barrel pressed against the thin fabric of my leggings, right where my heat was most intense.