Page 70 of My Sunfall

I can’t hold in my laugh. It sounds so mundane it hurts. He sets the table while I finish cooking. Then we eat in companionable silence, Lucas with his eyes glued to my face while my skin is heating under his gaze.

* * * *

His arms are wrapped around me, and his breath brushes over my ear-shell.

“Now.” His low voice sends a zap down to my toes.

The gunshot skyrockets in the early morning air. Missed.

I wince as Lucas’ low chuckle travels through the electronic muffs and vibrates through my back where he is plastered against me.

“You’re a terrible shot, cara mia.” He nuzzles the crook of my neck and I shudder.

I engage the security and lower the gun like he taught me, then I turn as much as his hold around me allows and glare up at him. “That’s because you’re distracting me. Maybe if you gave me some space, I’d be better.”

He hums noncommittally but doesn’t reply.

I look back at the target. There’s not a single hole in the cardboard outline he’s set up in an outdoor shooting range he erected for me to train. He started to take me out to the field to show me how to use a gun for a month now, since he found out that I’ve never been authorized to touch one.

“You’ll never be defenseless,” he declared. “You’ll see, it’ll be fun.”

“But women in the famiglia don’t use guns, what will people say?”

“Fuck them and what they think. I’ll shoot them if they dare to criticize,” he arrogantly declared, making me snort out a laugh.

And I had tried my best to learn. But Lucas is right, I’m a terrible shot. But that’s because he is glued to you the whole time, my pride grouses. His presence is maddeningly distracting. Every session, he stands plastered to my back, hands wrapped around me as he shows me how to handle and hold the gun. And all I can register is his cologne, the heat of his body and the low rumble of his voice traveling down my spine straight to my belly.

I let out a frustrated huff, making him chuckle again.

“Enough for today,” he decrees. “Let’s go to the gym.” He takes the gun from my hands, clears the chamber and puts it back into the hard case, shutting it with a soft click. Then he removes his earmuffs, then mine, setting them on the range table before lacing his fingers through mine. We walk back to the villa side by side. Things feel so…normal.

We’ve settled into a rhythm—shooting and sparring in the mornings when he isn’t going to work, then showering before sharing a light lunch. After that, he takes me out, sometimes to the bookstore, sometimes to the farmers’ market, and sometimes all the way back to the cottage one hour out of town where we spend the night or lose an entire weekend together. He’s bought up all the land surrounding the cottage and built a guarded wall around it, turning the place into a fortress despite my protests. “I’m not taking any chances with your safety,“ he declared. But inside the grounds, he’s left everything untouched, the house, the gardens are the same as they were, save for the sunlit library he created for me and filled with all my favorite books. And when we curl up together on the sofa or on the porch swing, each with a book, it feels so peaceful my heart aches.

Once we arrive at the gym, he releases my hand and steps on the mats, rolling his shoulders, already slipping into that loose, focused calm he gets when he’s about to fight.

“Today,” he says, circling me slowly, “I want you to stop meeting force with force or speed.”

I square my stance and frown in confusion. “Then what?”

“Distraction,” he replies smoothly. “Anything that makes your opponent lose focus, even for half a second, is an opening.”

I blink at him.

“You’re smaller,” he explains. “Sometimes, speed is not enough to get the upper hand over an opponent who is physically stronger than you. That’s when you’ll have to distract them.”

I nod in understanding. “Okay.” I breathe.

Distraction, got it. Then, before I can overthink it, I grab the hem of my top and pull it over my head, leaving me standing in front of him in my sports bra and yoga shorts.

His reaction is instantaneous. A low, helpless groan escapes him as he drags a hand down his face.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re killing me, cara mia. This was not what I had in mind.”

That half-second is all I need. I surge forward, using his lapse to hook his legs and push him backward. He hits the mat with a surprised grunt, and I’m on him before he can recover, pinning him there, my knees bracketing his torso.

“Sounds like good advice,” I say, smirking down with a triumphant smile.

He laughs quietly, the fight leaving his eyes to be replaced with a heat traveling over my skin like a touch. His eyes are blazing with intensity, and I feel the heaving of his chest under me when he draws in a shuddering breath. He slowly raises his hands and encircles my thighs, thumbs brushing my skin under the fabric of my shorts. The air crackles with electricity, our gazes lock, and suddenly my throat goes dry. My heart thunders against my ribs as I lean down and brush my lips over his. Since he started training me, teaching me to shoot, sparring with me, something in me has shifted. His self-confidence is a driving force, seeping steadily into me until I feel alive again. Until his strength feels like my own and I become the version of me I never thought I’d become. Strong. Daring. Free.