The rest of the tour was easier. Docks. Boathouse. Security post. A shooting range built into the far side of the property where the cliff curved inland. Aurora stared at the targets. Then the guns. Then me.
“Absolutely not.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something,” she accused.
“I’m always thinking something.”
“That must be exhausting for everyone around you,” she said. “Your friend seems permanently annoyed by you.”
I smiled. “Marco loves me. Do you know how to shoot?”
“No.”
That surprised me. In our world, girls like her were usually taught enough to hold a gun incorrectly and panic beautifully. “No?”
Her chin lifted. “Papa said women didn’t need guns if men were doing their jobs.”
The temperature inside me dropped. Slowly. Completely. I thought of Lorenzo Ventura. Dead. Good. I always thought he was slimy. Still not dead enough.
“And what do you think?” I asked.
Aurora stared at the gun rack. “I think men are rarely as good at their jobs as they claim.”
Christ. I liked her. I liked her so much I wanted to put a gun in her hand and teach her how to never need anyone again. Which was absurd. Because I also wanted to lock every gate in the world and make sure nothing ever touched her. Contradictory.
I stepped toward the rack and selected a small pistol. Checked it. Unloaded. Then held it out grip-first. Aurora looked at it like I was offering her a snake. “No.”
“It’s empty.”
“I don’t care,” she insisted.
“You should learn.”
“I should do many things. Run away. Call the police. Develop better taste in men,” she muttered.
My mouth twitched. “That last one would be tragic for me.”
She ignored that. But her gaze stayed on the gun. A second passed. Then another. Slowly, she reached out. Her fingers curled around the grip. Careful. Unsure. Her wrist dipped from the weight. I stepped behind her before I could think better of it. She stiffened. Completely.
Every muscle locked. I stopped. Not touching. Close enough to smell wind in her hair. Apples. Salt. God help me.
“You still have a choice,” I said quietly.
Her breathing changed. I watched her throat move as she swallowed. “I know.”
Two words. Soft. Not mocking. Not angry. Something in my chest went tight. Then she ruined it, because of course she did.
“But if you say anything weird like good girl, I will find a way to shoot you with the empty gun.”
I laughed against the back of her hair. Couldn’t help it. Didn’t want to. She relaxed by half an inch. Victory. I lifted my hands slowly, giving her time to object. When she didn’t, I adjusted her grip. Her skin was warm beneath mine. Small fingers. Delicate bones. Dark nails. A hand that should’ve held champagne glasses and silk skirts and maybe some poor bastard’s heart. Not weapons. Except she looked good with one. Too good.
“Both hands,” I murmured.
She obeyed, then looked offended by herself. “Like this?”
“Almost.” I nudged her stance wider with my shoe.