"Present itself?" she repeats my words, interrupting me. "What do you mean b–"

  "Listen, girl!" Daveed cuts her off, making her flinch and causing my chest to tighten with fury. "We can't have you being this jumpy, scared-like little kid when you're around weaponry," he adds, gesturing across the table. "When we say you need to know how to handle these, then you better listen."

  She looks at him, then back at me, bewilderment coloring the expression on her face.

  I shrug. "He's right about that."

  She frowns at me, visibly unhappy about the outcome of this exchange. But it only takes a few moments before understanding replaces her short-lived anger.

  "Okay, I understand," she whispers, a tremor running through her lower lip. "When do we start?"

  Chapter 12

  Nate

  As soon as we step outside, I notice her eyes flitting everywhere around us at once. She needs to be able to move freely, so I refrained from binding her in any way, but she had best not abuse the freedom I have granted her. She wouldn't be able to escape anywhere if she tries to run off, but it would be an inconvenience to me. Same thing if she decides to scream for help; her cries would fall on deaf ears, but it would annoy the fucking hell out of me.

  We're out in the middle of nowhere, the old shack we're using as a safe house is the only house for miles and miles. It was abandoned more than a decade ago, and even the Covey have hardly used it since because it's not easily accessible and too far away from anything.

  And that's exactly why I chose it for this particular endeavor. After all, when we first set up camp here, it was not to fulfill an order for the Covey, but to plan and prepare our escape.

  I lead her to the backyard. It‘s a small grassy area surrounded by dark pine trees that block us from the view of anyone in the valley around us. If it wasn't for the shabby-looking hut, the area would seem like a meadow planted in the middle of a deep, dark, and ominous forest, safe and eerily idyllic.

  She's walking hesitantly next to me, her eyes steadily flicking back and forth, her head barely moving. She doesn't want me to suspect that she's examining the surroundings for an opportunity to flee.

  "Don't even think about it," I say in an even tone without looking at her.

  "About what?"

  I let out a deep sigh. Playing the naive, innocent damsel has never worked with me.

  "About running off," I respond. "Or screaming. It's not only futile, but it will be met with harsh punishments, too."

  She huffs. "I figured as much, since we are coming out here to practice shooting. Gunshots are far louder than screaming, so you're obviously not worried about being heard by anyone."

  I cast her a quick look from the side, but she doesn't reciprocate. Her gaze is directed forward, lost in the distance.

  "And you're much faster and stronger than me," she adds. "I know that without testing you. Why waste my energy on trying to run?"

  She turns to me now, and her facial expression is hard to read. There's something lurking in those raven black eyes that unsettles me. It's not defiance, not hate, nothing that leads me to assume that she’s seeking a fight.

  And that's exactly what worries me. I don't trust that look. There's no way she could have transformed from a frightened kidnapping victim to completely compliant and agreeable within the course of just a few hours.

  I shake off my concerns and force myself to concentrate on the task at hand: training her how to shoot a gun.

  We've tested our weaponry out here before, and our set-up remains untouched. A row of soup cans and empty bottles are lined up across a dried-out tree trunk at the far end of the yard.

  I grab her by the upper arm, my fingers closing around the soft flesh a little tighter than necessary as I drag her away from the trunk. She protests and squirms, trying to pull her arm out of my grip.

  "I told you I'm not going anywhere," she complains. "No need to be such an asshole."

  She doesn‘t know any better, but being ignorant of the rules won't save her ass this time. I stop on the spot, my grip tightening so much that she grimaces in pain as I pull her closer.

  "I don't react well to insults," I seethe. "Call me an asshole one more time and I'll give you a spanking you won't forget, and then I will lock you up in that bedroom you hate so much."

  Her eyebrows first arch in surprise, and then her expression turns to one of amusement. "A spanking? What good would that do? I'm not a child!"

  She gasps for air when I yank her so close that her body is pressed against mine, my fingers digging into her flesh through the fabric of the sweater. She whines in pain, but my grasp only tightens when she tries to fight her way out of it.

  "Fine, I'll be quiet!"

  Her words come hurried and without the conviction I'd like to hear. I know they're just a result of the pain I'm inducing, but it'll do for now. Almost.

  "And?" I urge. She still owes me an apology.

  The furrow between her dark brows tells me that she's unsure what I want her to say.

  "You're not going to insult me again, are you?"

  She nods violently. "No, no, I won't. I promise."

  A deep sigh of relief escapes her throat when I let go of her arm. She casts me a dark look as she rubs at the place where I undoubtedly left my first mark on her. Anger is flaring in her gaze, but she's smart enough to keep her mouth shut this time.

  "Let's get to it," I say, ignoring her furious glare burning into me as I open the silver case I brought with me. She doesn't move and remains standing in place, all the while watching as I remove the Colt 1911 and Glock 17 that I chose for her. Both of these semi automatics are a regular part of our arsenal. They're light-weight, small, and perfect for close combat, the only form of fight she'll have to be prepared for. Lailah was versed in using all kinds of guns and even knew her way around a proper shotgun, but she was a true Covey girl, raised to be one of us.

  This girl is different, very different. Even getting her used to handling a simple handgun will be a challenge.

  She takes a step back when I try to hand her the Colt.

  "Take it!" I urge, practically pushing the gun against her chest. "It's not loaded, no reason to be afraid."

  Her eyes dart back and forth between me and the gun, another frown appearing on her face before she slowly reaches up, taking the gun from my hands. Her fingers are trembling as she weighs the Colt in them, holding it up like it is a grenade about to explode.

  I roll my eyes at her, torn between annoyance and an odd sense of endearment. I can't help it. It's been ages since I've been with a true civilian, a girl as innocent and untouched by the world of crime as she is.

  She's completely helpless. Pure. So fucking virtuous.

  Deliciously different.

  Fuck, all of a sudden I realize that this will be even harder than I thought it would be.

  Chapter 13

  Malia

  I'm scared. And I know I should be, given my situation. I have no idea where I am, and I’m being held hostage by three thugs whose plan could be God knows what with me. He says I'm supposed to play a role, to assume the identity of someone else for a while–with the promise that I'll be freed at the end.

  But how do I know that's true? How do I know he's not just toying with me, like a cat does with a mouse before it eventually kills it after it has served its purpose?

  And why do I need to learn how to shoot a gun? Am I going to need to protect myself against someone, someone who I will meet once the mission starts? Am I expected to shoot at the police if they happen to discover us out here?

  And then a morbid thought dawns on me. Might it be an essential part of the mission? Will I have to commit murder for them?

  The gun weighs heavy in my hands, and even though he said that it's not loaded and thus should pose no danger, it frightens the hell out of me.

  "You need to relax," he tells me. "A gun is not dangerous. It can only become dangerous when in the hands of someone who does not respect it."

  He steps closer to me then, holding a different gun in his hand as an example.

  "Hold it like this," he instructs, closing his right hand around the barrel of the gun while he positions his other hand underneath it as support.

  I try to copy what he's showing me, cursing the way my hands are shaking and making it nearly impossible for me to hold it correctly. I don't want him to see how scared I am. Not only does it annoy him, but it makes me look weak in front of him, and that’s the last impression I want to make on him.

  I can't allow him to think that he has complete authority over me and that I'll do whatever he wants.

  "This is a Colt 1911," he explains, continuing to pay close attention to how I‘m attempting to hold a handgun for the very first time in my life. "It's a semi-automatic, good for close range fights and provides ideal protection for precarious situations at close proximity."

  "What kind of situations?" I ask, my eyes glued to the weapon in my hands.

  "An example would be when you're in a building or room with a group of people," he elaborates. "Or when you're physically attacked on the street."

  My eyes are wide and lips are quivering when I look up at him. "Am I going to find myself in those kinds of situations? Where I’m going to need to use a gun? Is that what you're preparing me for?"

  He offers a subtle shake of his head. "No. Not really. But you need to be able to defend yourself—and not shake like you’re scared at the first sight of a gun."

  "Not really? I need you to give me more details than that!"

  "Not right now," he says evenly, holding his gun up before my eyes. "Now focus."

  He motions with his eyes at me to watch his hands on the gun, and he pulls the top part of the pistol back and lets it slide forward.

  “This,” he says, repeating the motion, “is called racking the slide. It loads the first round from the magazine into the chamber so you’re ready to shoot. If the gun is loaded, that is.”

  He removes the magazine from the handle, then he holds it up to my face. He locks eyes with me before he continues.

  "The Colt has detachable magazines. I'm sure it will never get to it, but if you ever find yourself in a situation where you have to reload quickly, you can simply exchange the empty magazine with a full one. That is, if you have extras."

  He snaps the magazine back into the gun and waits for me to do the same. I take a deep breath, trying to curb the panic that's rising up deep within my chest. If I wasn't such a damn chicken, I could turn this gun on him and take a chance at regaining my freedom.

  Instead, I'm trembling like a leaf at the realization that I'm holding a loaded gun in my hands. Even if I was stupid enough to turn the pistol against him, I'm shaking so much that I’m sure I couldn't even aim straight, let alone pull the trigger.

  We are standing about five yards away from the base of a large tree trunk that I assume is the target, judging by the row of cans lined up on top of it.

  "Watch," he says, lifting the gun and pointing it toward the trunk. He offers no additional warning, so when he fires the shot, I shriek in surprise. The shot rings out louder than I expected, reminding me of the violence these weapons can bring. I've always hated guns, and I hate that I'm forced to use one.

  Nate lowers his gun, and—much to my surprise—tucks it into his belt before placing his hands on my shoulders and turning me to face the trunk.

  "Aim." His order is brief and brusque as always.

  I stare at him, my eyes wide, my entire body now shaking uncontrollably.

  "I-I-I can't," I stutter.

  He rolls his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. When he closes in on me, I retreat on instinct, but he doesn't let me. He steadies himself behind my back, his arms enclosing around me. His strong hands glide along my arms until they reach my trembling hands.

  "Hold it like I showed you." His voice is softer this time. He's not barking the words at me like a military commander, but like a confidante, as if he cares.

  He feels so warm. And he smells so good. I can't think of anything else as I follow his order, closing my right hand around the grip while my left one supports the weapon, just like he showed me.

  His hands are on top of mine, guiding me as my arms are lifted, and I lean back into his chest. He's so much taller than me, dwarfing me inside his embrace as he governs my motions. My hands are no longer shaking, now that they are secured by his strong, domineering touch.

  How can this be so comforting? He's a criminal, a kidnapper. A bad man.

  But right now, those pieces of information mean nothing to me and I couldn't be more grateful for his support. For the first time since waking up in that horrible bedroom, I feel warm and safe.

  What a betrayal this is. I must be stupid!

  "Ready?" he asks, still speaking in that soft and almost loving tone right next to my ear.

  "As ready as I'll ever be," I whisper.

  I take a deep breath. Focus. Don't get lost in this false sense of security.

  "Watch your fingers," he whispers next to my ear, as he gently corrects the position of my fingers around the gun. He wraps his hands around mine, squeezing to keep my hands in place.

  "This is exactly how you should hold it," he lectures me in that soft voice. "Close your eyes for a second. Remember it, feel it."

  I hesitate for a moment, my eyes flickering nervously before I manage to comply. I shield my vision, trying to focus on the way the gun feels in my hands, trying to memorize the placement of my fingers around the barrel.

  At least that's what I should focus on. But it's so hard when my mind strays, instead following another more alluring sensation.

  Nate. His scent. His touch. The feeling of his strong chest planted squarely against my back, his heart beating calmly, methodically, and not at a furiously nervous pace like mine. The way his large hands feel around mine, the way his strong arms feel encompassing me...

  "Onyx."

  My eyes fly open.

  "Pull the trigger."

  And I do. The shot echoes through the backyard, startling a bunch of birds that have been resting in the trees surrounding us, the commotion drowning out the sound of my own gasp as I process the recoil of the weapon. The jolt wasn't as strong as I feared it would be, but that may be because of his support. It doesn't even feel as if I was the one who fired the shot, but rather that he did and my fingers just followed the motion.

  But I know that's not true. I pulled the trigger. I fired the gun.

  "Good shot," he praises, still speaking in that soft, encouraging tone. "Now do it again."

  I let out a fearful sigh when he removes his hands from mine, and when he makes a move to step away from me, my gaze seeks him out and finds him.

  "Please, don't go." The words escape before I realize it. Did I really say that? Did I beg him to stay close to me?

  The words seem to startle him as much as they do me, because for a few seconds there's nothing but awkward silence between us, the wind rustling through the trees in the background, a lonely bird chirping.

  "I-I-I mean, it's just that... I might need help," I stutter, turning away from him as my face heats with shame. I hate this. I hate how much I want him near to me.

  "Okay," he says, approaching me until my back is met with his welcoming chest. "But I won't hold your hands this time. You'll have to do it on your own. I'll just stand here and support your stance, alright?"

  I nod, pressing my lips together. "Okay."

  He reaches forward, adjusting my arms and correcting the placement of my hands on the gun before moving his hands to my shoulders.

  I close my eyes, feeling the weight and texture of the gun in my hands, the way my fingers feel wrapped around it, holding it in a firm grip as if I had done this a million times before. I'm nervous, but I'm not shaking with fear this time. I feel secure and confident.

  "You can do this," he says reassuringly.

  And he's right.

  Chapter 14

  Nate

  I let her take a few more shots, and she grows more confident with each one. She doesn't come close to hitting any of the targets lined up along the trunk, not even when we step closer and have less than three yards between them and us. But that doesn't matter. If everything goes as planned, she will never have to use a gun. This is merely a precaution and a way to get her used to the environment she's now a part of. I can't have her trembling every time she sees a handgun. This goody-goody, small town girl doesn't have to grow into the fierce, cunning assassin that our Lailah chose to be—she just needs to take a few steps in that direction in case the role calls for it.

  I also show her how to reload both the Colt and the Glock and how to store them in a safe way before putting both guns away and calling it a day. It's starting to get dark, and I'm starving.

  She trots along next to me like an obedient puppy as we head back to the house. Something has changed about her, it's impossible to miss. She stands taller, adopting a more confident stance even when walking next to me. I noticed the way she leaned into me when I supported her. She was quivering with fear when we started, barely able to hold onto the gun, let alone aim and shoot it.

  But that changed when I put my arms around her, when I could feel the heat emitting from her petite body and took in the fresh scent of her skin. She‘s responsive to me in a way that I didn‘t expect. Her entire stance relaxed when I was close to her, and with every successful shot fired, her back grew straighter and her expression brighter.

  It was beautiful to watch.

  She is beautiful to watch.

  Of course she is. She looks exactly like Lailah. I shouldn't be surprised that I'm this mesmerized by her looks, not when I've fallen for them before.

  "Did you train Lailah, too?" she asks, as if she could read my thoughts. I'm startled by her question, so I avoid her probing gaze.

  I shake my head. "I didn't need to. She already knew how to fire a weapon."

  "Always?" she continues. "Someone must've taught her."