Page 60 of Bound in Possession

“That was adrenaline and beginner’s luck. I still can’t believe I did that!”

I try to ignore her, shifting my body away and pulling the heavy duvet back over my shoulders, fully intending to drag her under the covers with me and sleep for another three hours.

But Camilla is relentless. She tugs the blanket down, straddling my waist over the covers, and begins lightly patting my cheeks to keep me awake.

"Maksim. Get up," she demands, her voice laced with that bossy, irresistible spark that drives me out of my mind.

I stare up at her from the pillow, taking in the radiant glow on her face and the sheer determination in her posture. A tired, rare smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I reach up, gripping her hip, and give her a stern look, though we both know she won this round before it even started.

"You are relentless," I growl softly, sitting up and swinging my bare legs over the edge of the bed with a long sigh. "Fine. Give me ten minutes."

Ten minutes later, fully dressed in black tactical gear and carrying a pair of customized handguns, I lead her down into the subterranean levels of the mansion.

The heavy, soundproofed steel door seals behind us as we step into my private shooting range. The metallic tang of gun oil and cold concrete fills the air. It’s a harsh, clinical space built for kill practice, not for leisure. I fully expect her to show a flicker of hesitation—most people lose their nerve the second the stark reality of the weapons sets in.

Camilla doesn't even blink. She steps up to the primary shooting lane, her posture straight, her eyes bright with a sharp, stubborn focus.

"Rule number one," I say, stepping behind her and setting a sleek 9mm on the counter. "You respect the weapon. It is a tool, Camilla. It has no loyalty, no malice, and no mercy. If you fear it, you will fail with it."

"I don't fear it," she replies, her chin lifting slightly. "I just want to know how to use it properly."

"Then listen," I command, my voice shifting into the authoritative, sharp tone I use with my soldiers. "Square your shoulders. Feet shoulder-width apart. Lean into the shot, don't lean back like you're trying to dodge the recoil."

I step in close, wrapping my hands over hers to adjust her grip on the frame. "Higher on the splay. Bring your left hand around—no, lower your thumb. If you leave it there, the slide will rip your skin off."

"I'm adjusting, Maksim, give me a second," she snaps back quietly, throwing a sharp glance over her shoulder. "You don't need to bark like I'm one of your recruits."

A low chuckle escapes my chest at her refusal to be intimidated. "I'm not barking, princess. I'm keeping your hand intact. Now breathe out slow. Squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it."

She takes a deep breath, her eyes locking onto the target down the lane, completely tuning out everything else as she prepares to fire.

I step up directly behind her, molding my chest flush against her back to adjust her stance. My hands cover hers, guiding her arms up until the sights line up perfectly with the paper silhouette thirty feet away. I slide one hand down to her hip, nudging her stance slightly wider, my thumb pressing through the fabric of her pants to root her center of gravity.

The physical closeness is instant and suffocatingly hot. The scent of her hair, the subtle curve of her waist pressed into my front, and the heat rising between our bodies threaten to shatter my concentration. My pulse spikes, but I force myself to keep my hands steady and my tone strict. This isn't about pleasure—not down here. Her life depends on this.

Bang!

The gunshot echoes off the concrete walls. The bullet strays far to the left, tearing through the outer edge of the paper target.

"You flinched," I say quietly against her ear, my chest expanding against her back as I hold her steady. "You're anticipating the kickback from last time. Stop fighting the gun. Let the recoil happen, then bring it back."

Camilla clicks her tongue, her jaw setting in pure frustration. "Again," she demands.

She resets her stance, refusing my offer to step back and rest. We spend the next hour working through clip after clip. Every time she misses, her determination only sharpens. I coach her through the rhythm—breathe, sight, squeeze, reset.

By the fifth time, the change is undeniable.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three clean shots hit center-mass, punching jagged holes through the red bullseye.

I step back, crossing my arms over my chest as I inspect the paper target sliding back along the track toward us. It isn't top-tier sniper precision, but it is lethal, tight, and effective.

Looking at her standing there with smoke rising from the barrel, her hair messily spilling out of her ponytail and her eyes blazing with accomplishment, something shifts heavily inside me.

Camilla isn't just accepting this life, nor is she content sitting behind heavy iron doors relying on me or a dozen armed guards to keep her breathing. She wants to survive. She wants the power to defend her own life, to stand beside me in the mud rather than hide in the shadows.

A dark, lethal pride swells in my chest.