Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Violet

"Keep your eyes straight ahead. Do not move away, even for a second."

Cain's deep rumble of a voice vibrates in my ear. Of course this is one of the very many ways he'd test me. Just hand me a gun that requires immense concentration to handle, give me an instruction to keep my eyes on the target ahead, then hover his magnificent, muscled body so close to mine I'm nearly trembling in anticipation.

"Bet no one else has target practice like this, " I mutter, more than a little annoyed. I don't want to have target practice. I want to tear his clothes off and jump his bones, right now, right here, on the cold concrete floor of the target range. I'm annoyed I can't do that, and annoyed he's made me feel like a wanton slut.

"That's right, Violet," Cain says in my ear, as he ghosts his tongue over my earlobe. I stifle a whimper. "There's no one else here who uses target practice for the sole purpose of muffling their screams when they come."

"It's not the sole purpose," I mutter under my breath. I mean, I'm a damn good shot now.

I brace myself, grit my teeth, and pull the trigger. Fire explodes from the gun, the bullet tears into the paper target shaped like a human, and I watch with gleeful satisfaction as I tear a hole right between the eyes, the infamous "T-box" shot. Lethal, every time.

"Well done, little protégé," Cain says with approval. Warmth flares through my chest at his praise. It's rare that he doles out praise to anyone, and sometimes I feel he's toughest on me. The others know I mean something to him, and he doesn't want anyone to think I get preferential treatment.

I do, though.

I so do.

"Tell me the three types of gunshots," he says, nestling his hands on my hips. He's been training me now for nearly two months, and only a small portion of the training takes place with actual tactical work.

I try to stand up straighter, but his body's pressed up against mine. Not that I'm complaining. I reload my gun as I spout off details. "The three main types of gunshot wounds include non-penetrating, perforating, and penetrating. Non-penetrating wounds mean the bullet grazed skin without embedding, perforating wounds involve an entrance and exit site, and penetrating wounds have an entrance site with no exit."

"Very good. Which type of gunshot do we aim for, Violet?"

I answer like I'm under his command, because it tickles my fancy. "Whichever is the most expedient, sir."

Sometimes we shoot to warn. Sometimes we shoot to injure. Sometimes we shoot to kill.

I hold my position, vividly aware of his heartbeat against my back and his warmth that surrounds me like a heated blanket. He'd kick anyone's ass for engaging in target practice while so close to another, but I know it's partly how he likes to test me.

I aim for the target and pull the trigger again.

Bam. Hit the kidney, an excellent debilitating and potentially fatal shot. The perfect one to incapacitate and cause pain without immediate death, if we're feeling like we need to have a little chat.

"Good girl. Excellent."

I don't react. I don't want anyone to see how I bask in the little rays of his praise. It's kind of pathetic.

"Aim for the left shoulder."

I pull the trigger and stifle a grin when the paper target of a shoulder tears open.

"Heart."

Another on-point hit.

"Right shoulder."

Boom.

I don't wait for further instruction, but aim a few more shots, the last one landing straight in the groin area.

"Fuck, my balls clenched at that."

"Your balls clenched because it's fucking cold out here. Did you see what I made for you?"

I grin at him over my shoulder, and he quickly brushes his mouth against mine. I didn't expect that, but I don't stop him. I love the feel of his hot, sensual mouth on mine, the way my body melts against him and my heartbeat quickens.

"No, baby," he whispers with a smile. "What'd you make for me?"

"It's a heart, see?"

He looks over my shoulder. "Ah, so it is. You shot a heart shape in a human body. If that's not the most romantic fucking thing I've ever seen…"

I grin. "I knew you'd like it."

"Should I frame it?" he teases, as I clean up the little table at the range and carefully put the ammo and guns away.

"Of course. Put it away so I can regift it to you on Valentine's Day."

"You're so damn romantic."

"I try."

He takes the gun out of my hand, lays it down on the table, and reaches for me.

"This is why you love target practice."

I gasp when his fingers tangle in my hair, his grip firm but just exactly what I need. My mouth parts to release a whimper he quickly swallows. His tongue touches mine. My belly melts.

My hands find their way around his hard, muscled back, grasping for purchase as he takes the kiss deeper. Harder. I meet his tongue with mine, relishing the sound of his deep, male groan.

"Tell me again," he grates in my ear, a firm command that makes my nipples hard. "The three types of gunshot wounds, Violet. Nice and slow."

"Non-penetrating," I say on a groan, as his fingers find the hem of my shirt and gently lift it. I feel the warmth of his touch on my belly, then one finger grazes the curve of my breast. He flickers a thumb over my bra-clad nipple. My body's used to his touch. My hips jerk.

He nods. I think I know what he's doing.

"Perforating." Strong fingers slide past the elastic of my leggings, past the silk top of my panties, and dive between my legs to do their magic. I open my legs and moan, surprised at how wet I am already. I shouldn't be. He knows how to play my body, how to work it to climax in any way he knows how.

"Good girl. And the last one?"

I close my eyes. "Penetrating."

Thick fingers plunge into my core, jerk upward, and I cry out from the sudden stabbing thrills that explode through me.

He's done wicked, dirty things to me in here, and it seems he's nowhere near finished.

"I fucking love to see you come," he growls in my ear, his hand cupped possessively around my pussy, which is still spasming. I breathe hard, then softer, slumping against him. I'm barely aware of where we are or what we're doing when he slides into one of the straight-backed chairs at the back of the range which we keep for guests and tugs me onto his lap.

It's been precisely seven weeks and four days since we rescued his sister Skylar from a vindictive serial rapist. It feels much, much longer.

I've left my day job and moved into Cain's house in Salem, a large, rambling estate where many of his employees live. He treats them to the lap of luxury, as he should. They run a top secret, clandestine organization that charges top dollar. Their clients pay more for a job with Master Enterprises than most people ever earn in their lifetime. Tonight's security detail, for example, runs a cool million dollars.

"Got a present for you, baby," Cain whispers in my ear.

"Cain—"

"‘You shouldn't buy me so many things'," he finishes in a high-pitched voice. "‘Stop spoiling me. I don't need all these things'."

I mutter under my breath. But when he nestles a heavy, large, solid black box onto my lap, I close my mouth. My heart beats a little faster.

"What's that?" I whisper.

"Open it and see."

My hand shakes when I slide my finger along the edge of the box top and gently lift it. I lean against his large, sturdy frame to help still the trembling, but it doesn't work. I'm shaking. I don't handle expensive gifts well, and something tells me this one's not cheap.

I don't deserve it, I think to myself, whatever it is.

He wouldn't like it if he heard me saying that.

"It's way too big of a box for jewelry and way too small for a car."

His low, manly chuckle makes me smile.

"You don't want a car, baby. Even I know that. You want a truck."

Not just any truck, I want the gorgeous Toyota Tundra 4WD with the Rockstar Rims that sits in his driveway. The gorgeous force of nature with thirty-eight-inch mud terrain tires and black rawhide leather interior with blood-red inlay. Swoon.

I lift the lid, and my jaw drops open. I can't breathe for long seconds, my eyes water with tears, and my nose tingles. There's a lump lodged in my throat. I don't trust myself to speak.

"You deserve it, baby," he whispers in my ear. No. No one deserves a masterpiece like this, and most definitely not me.

"Is this the Wilson?" I whisper.

We were looking at high-end handguns the other day, and when my eyes fell on the Wilson Combat Tactical Supergrade, I almost lost my mind. It's absolutely gorgeous, handcrafted from carbon steel, the premier in defensive handguns.

Gunmetal gray with silver details, it's solidly built yet somehow lightweight. The handle's decorated in a pattern that looks like sunbursts. Every detail is finely crafted perfection.

"I had this custom made for you, baby." Of course he did. Cain doesn't do cookie-cutter. "Takes eight rounds. Four-pound trigger pull, starburst grips, five-inch carbon steel slide." He goes on about the details, front sight something something, blah blah blah. I've got guns that I absolutely love. Some that have become like friends to me, comfortable in my palm and ready to shoot. But this… this was custom-made for me.

"It's lightweight, beautiful, and deadly," he says.

"You do say the most romantic things."

I feel his stubble across my cheek when he kisses me, and while a thrill shimmers through my body, I'm focused on the stunning weapon I hold in my hand.

"I can't take this, Cain." I shake my head. It cost five thousand dollars.

"You can. You're worth it."

I shake my head, but he gently pushes me off his lap. "Go show me, Violet. Show me what you've got. We've got the security detail tonight, and if you're comfortable with it, you'll take this with you."

He's got harnesses and holsters galore for me to choose from, so that shouldn't be a problem.

I stand, new energy coursing through me with my new toy in hand. I tremble in anticipation as I slide the ammo into place. I've used his guns. I've borrowed guns.

I've never owned one.

I take in a deep breath, get into position, and aim.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

My God, it shoots as if enhanced with magic. Each bullet hits its mark with perfect precision.

This is it. I'm holding the weapon I'll use when I kill my parents' murderer.