Atonement (Master's Protege 2)

Chapter One

Violet

“Keep your eyes straight ahead. Do not move away, even for a second.”

Cain’s deep rumble of a voice vibrates in my ear. Of course this is one of the very many ways he’d test me. Just hand me a gun that requires immense concentration to handle, give me an instruction to keep my eyes on the target ahead, then hover his magnificent, muscled body so close to mine I’m nearly trembling in anticipation.

“Bet no one else has target practice like this,” I mutter, more than a little annoyed. I don’t want to have target practice. I want to tear his clothes off and jump his bones, right now, right here, on the cold concrete floor of the target range. I’m annoyed I can’t do that, and annoyed he’s made me feel like a wanton slut.

“That’s right, Violet,” Cain says in my ear, as he ghosts his tongue over my earlobe. I stifle a whimper. “There’s no one else here who uses target practice for the sole purpose of muffling their screams when they come.”

“It’s not the sole purpose,” I mutter under my breath. I mean, I’m a damn good shot now.

I brace myself, grit my teeth, and pull the trigger. Fire explodes from the gun, the bullet tears into the paper target shaped like a human, and I watch with gleeful satisfaction as I tear a hole right between the eyes, the infamous “T-box” shot. Lethal, every time.

“Well done, little protégé,” Cain says with approval. Warmth flares through my chest at his praise. It’s rare that he doles out praise to anyone, and sometimes I feel he’s toughest on me. The others know I mean something to him, and he doesn’t want anyone to think I get preferential treatment.

I do, though.

I so do.

“Tell me the three types of gunshots,” he says, nestling his hands on my hips. He’s been training me now for nearly two months, and only a small portion of the training takes place with actual tactical work.

I try to stand up straighter, but his body’s pressed up against mine. Not that I’m complaining. I reload my gun as I spout off details. “The three main types of gunshot wounds include non-penetrating, perforating, and penetrating. Non-penetrating wounds mean the bullet grazed skin without embedding, perforating wounds involve an entrance and exit site, and penetrating wounds have an entrance site with no exit.”

“Very good. Which type of gunshot do we aim for, Violet?”

I answer like I’m under his command, because it tickles my fancy. “Whichever is the most expedient, sir.”

Sometimes we shoot to warn. Sometimes we shoot to injure. Sometimes we shoot to kill.

I hold my position, vividly aware of his heartbeat against my back and his warmth that surrounds me like a heated blanket. He’d kick anyone’s ass for engaging in target practice while so close to another, but I know it’s partly how he likes to test me.

I aim for the target and pull the trigger again.

Bam. Hit the kidney, an excellent debilitating and potentially fatal shot. The perfect one to incapacitate and cause pain without immediate death, if we’re feeling like we need to have a little chat.

“Good girl. Excellent.”

I don’t react. I don’t want anyone to see how I bask in the little rays of his praise. It’s kind of pathetic.

“Aim for the left shoulder.”

I pull the trigger and stifle a grin when the paper target of a shoulder tears open.

“Heart.”

Another on-point hit.

“Right shoulder.”

Boom.

I don’t wait for further instruction, but aim a few more shots, the last one landing straight in the groin area.

“Fuck, my balls clenched at that.”

“Your balls clenched because it’s fucking cold out here. Did you see what I made for you?”

I grin at him over my shoulder, and he quickly brushes his mouth against mine. I didn’t expect that, but I don’t stop him. I love the feel of his hot, sensual mouth on mine, the way my body melts against him and my heartbeat quickens.

“No, baby,” he whispers with a smile. “What’d you make for me?”

“It’s a heart, see?”

He looks over my shoulder. “Ah, so it is. You shot a heart shape in a human body. If that’s not the most romantic fucking thing I’ve ever seen…”

I grin. “I knew you’d like it.”

“Should I frame it?” he teases, as I clean up the little table at the range and carefully put the ammo and guns away.

“Of course. Put it away so I can regift it to you on Valentine’s Day.”

“You’re so damn romantic.”

“I try.”

He takes the gun out of my hand, lays it down on the table, and reaches for me.

“This is why you love target practice.”

I gasp when his fingers tangle in my hair, his grip firm but just exactly what I need. My mouth parts to release a whimper he quickly swallows. His tongue touches mine. My belly melts.