Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

He draws circles over my hips with his thumbs. “I hope you have something formal in there, otherwise I can take you to the boutique at Elephant Hills to shop for a dress.”

“What’s the occasion?”

His eyes tighten, and his body tenses. “Oliver is throwing a party to celebrate his birthday. I would’ve declined, but it’ll send the wrong message.”

Even though I’ve been the one who pushed Ian to make me his rightful partner, fearful anticipation fills me at the prospect. “When is the event?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“I think I may have a dress to wear.”

“It’ll be a fancy occasion. Oliver likes to show off.”

“I’ll make an effort.”

He tightens his fingers on my hips. “Not that you need to. You’d be gorgeous dressed in a hessian bag.” He takes my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Come.”

I hang back. “I appreciate the clothes, but you shouldn’t pay my way. I like to be independent.”

He stops to look at me. “You are. You’re working hard enough.” He frowns. “Too hard.”

“I don’t want to look like a gold-digger.”

A grin stretches across his face. “I stole you, remember? If it bothers you that much, I’ll get Banga to pay you a salary.”

“For what?” I exclaim.

“Crop manager. Farming advisor. Ranger. Whatever the hell you like.”

I stumble a step when he gives my hand a tug.

“Now come. We have someplace to be.”

“Where?”

He smiles when he says, “You’ll see,” but I don’t miss the tension sharpening his features.

Leon and Ruben are waiting with rifles outside the door. Leon offers me a friendly nod while Ruben’s smile is condescending.

We walk a short distance in the opposite direction of the main lodge and stop in a clearing on the riverbank. Paper targets face the water. A guard stands next to a foldable metal table on which every imaginable rifle and pistol is laid out.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Choose your weapon,” Ian says.

I look into his eyes. A glint of humor flickers in those depths, catching the amber flecks that light up the brown, but the set of his mouth is firm. He’s serious.

“Why?” I ask.

“Training,” he says.

Inwardly, I smile. I can take a detachable rifle apart and put it back together blindfolded. I can load and aim in a second.

“Go on,” he says, waving a hand at the weapons buffet.

I’m steadier with a rifle, so I go for the Beretta.

Ian eyes me with a raised brow. “You sure? That gun is almost as big as you.” When I don’t bother to reply, he carefully takes it from my hands. “Always aim the barrel down.”

I roll my eyes. That’s the first rule of handling a gun, and I’ve known it since I was three years old. My dad always respected and explained the rules.

“You open it like this.” He pulls back the bolt. “Check if there’s already a bullet inside before you load it.”

I take it from his hands, grab a bullet from the ammunition box on the table and slip it into the breech.

Ian takes a pair of earmuffs, but I shake my head. I didn’t grow up with earmuffs. Never needed them when my dad taught me target practice.

“We’ll go for the left target first and—” Ian starts.

Before he’s finished his sentence, I’ve pulled the trigger. Bullseye. I reload and shoot. Bullseye. Reload and shoot. I carry on until there’s a big hole in the middle of each target.

“You were saying?” I ask when I hand him the gun, taking care not to touch the smoking-hot barrel and ignoring the discomfort of the blisters on my palms.

Ian stares at me with a slack jaw.

Leon laughs. “Holy smokes, brother. I’d say you’ve met your match.”

“Match made in heaven,” Ruben drawls.

I go for the Glock 9 mm next. Pressing the button on the side of the hand grip, I eject the magazine and load the bullets.

“Wait.” Ian lays a hand on my arm. “Go for the outside circle.”

“Nine or three o’clock?” I ask.

“Both.”

I aim for nine o’clock, taking my arm pullup into consideration. My hand is steady when I pull the trigger. The outer line on nine o’clock explodes. Taking less than a second, I aim and hit the line on three o’clock.

“Fuck,” Leon says. “Who taught you to shoot like that?”

“My dad,” I say, lowering the weapon. “Which one do you want me to try next?”

Ian scratches his jaw. “I think we’re done here.” He addresses the guard. “You can pack it up.” To Ruben, “Help him carry it back to the vault.”

Ruben’s reply is neutral. “Whatever you say.”

That evening, we have a big barbecue at the main lodge. The whole village is attending. There’s drumming, dancing, and a lot of beer going around. They’re celebrating that the evil spirit has been sent back to the underworld and Banga has been saved.

Ian and I are having our own private celebration, a coming out of the closet of sorts. I’ve decided to stay out of my own free will, and he’s decided to give me freedom. Well, freedom to an extent. He’s not going to let me go around unaccompanied until he’s certain I won’t try to run away. I’m still to prove myself to him.