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“Nicely done!” Edo praises, a wide smile on his handsome face. “You really got the movement down. Remember, the key is using their momentum against them.”
We continue drilling various self-defense techniques, Edo offering constant feedback and encouragement. My movements grow sharper, more confident as I commit the motions to muscle memory.
Doing this makes me feel like I’m reclaiming my power. Like I’m not weak anymore.
After a while, Nat grows bored watching Edo drill me on self-defense techniques.
“Alright, that’s enough of the martial arts stuff,” she declares, grabbing my arm. “Time to work on some real firepower.”
She drags me down to the lavish indoor shooting range hidden in the basement of the mansion. “This is where the real action happens.” Nat grins, gesturing around the state-of-the-art facility.
I feel a flutter of unease in the pit of my stomach as Nat begins thoroughly explaining gun safety and handling. The memory of squeezing the trigger to end Mark’s life flashes vividly through my mind, making my breath catch in my throat.
Nat pauses her speech, seeing my growing distress. “Hey, you okay?” Nat asks gently, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We can stop if you’re not ready for this.”
I shake my head rapidly, swallowing hard. “No, I need to do this,” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “That’s exactly why I need to learn—so I’m never that helpless, that unprepared, ever again.”
Nat and Edo share a glance before Nat shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Nat demonstrates a proper stance and fires the gun. To my surprise, Nat proves to be an incredible shot, hitting the targets with impressive accuracy. She makes it look so easy.
The shock and awe in my face must be apparent because Edo chuckles, amusement clear in his eyes. “Yeah, Nat’s a better shot than even Damian. Don’t tell him I said that, though. You know how he loves to be the best at everything.”
Nat preens, clearly pleased with the comparison. “What can I say? I’m a natural. Alright, Alexis, let’s see what you got.”
They watch me apprehensively as I grasp the handgun Nat handed me. My fingers are shaking slightly, but my grip is firm. Taking a deep breath, I raise the weapon, sighting down the barrel.
The memory of that night floods my senses—the tang of gunpowder, the deafening crack of the shot, the awful, final thud as Mark’s lifeless body fell on top of me, his blood surrounding me. I feel bile rise in my throat, my chest constricting painfully.
But then, something shifts. The terror and revulsion give way to a steely resolve. I steady my stance, exhaling slowly. I will not let that moment define me. I will take back the power that had been stolen from me.
With renewed determination, I squeeze the trigger, the gun bucking in my hands.
The bullet strikes the target dead center.
“Holy fuck,” Edo breathes while Nat stares at me with something like admiration in her eyes. I lower the weapon, my eyes shining with a newfound strength.
“Let’s do that again,” I say, my voice unwavering. I’m done being a victim. From now on, I will be the master of my own fate.
I spend the next few hours diligently practicing my shooting, determined to gain proficiency. Nat offers helpful tips and suggestions, occasionally barking at me when I hold the gun wrong. But as time goes on, I begin to feel increasingly fatigued and nauseous.
Chalking it up to the stress and shock of recent events, I finally call it a day, my arms trembling from not only Edo’s self-defense lessons but from holding a gun for hours.
“Keep practicing,” Nat tells me as we head upstairs. “And there are cameras everywhere in that gun range. If I see you with an improper stance, I will fight you.”
Somehow, I don’t doubt that Nat would.
After a long, hot shower, I sink into my plush bed, Biscotti immediately curling up beside me. Biscotti’s approval of me was the subject of much amusement from Edo and Damian and consternation from Nat.
As I lie there, idly petting Biscotti’s fur, a nagging thought suddenly occurs to me.
When was my last period?
With everything that had happened, the trauma and upheaval, I hadn’t even been keeping track. Closing my eyes, I mentally try to retrace the calendar in my mind.
Suddenly, I bolt upright, my heart pounding. Seizing my phone, I frantically scroll through my period tracking app, my eyes widening as the data confirms my suspicions.
It has been eight weeks since my last cycle. Right before I escaped the Carter house and found myself tangled in Damian’s web.
