Page 138 of Brutal Revenge

My wife.

Claude nods rapidly as if I responded. “We don’t want you getting stung with any nasties.”

He thinks he’s saved us.

I’m not close to reaching the same conclusion.

Azra folds her arms over her chest before giving Claude her best interrogative stare. “That’s a beekeeper’s mask?”

“Uh-huh,” Claude replies, nodding too fast. “It scares the bees as much as it subdues them.”

Azra cocks a stern brow, and Claude shits his pants before he bails, leaving me to clean up my own mess.

“Pleasure meeting you, but I’ve gotta go. Orchard emergency. Bye!”

He dives into the UTV and skids down a row between lemon trees.

I stalk his departure, torn between amusement and wanting to kill him. Usually, I respond to a situation like this with violence, but Claude is family. And two—I love wrangling a moody, cranky Azra.

I’m obsessed with every single one of her moods. So much so, I’m dying to experience her first period as her husband. Will she tear my nuts off with her hands or her teeth?

Fingers crossed she does both.

Azra slowly turns to me, eyes narrowed.

Still fixated on the thought of wrangling a tiger into submission, I smirk and wink. It doesn’t have the effect it usually does. Perhaps her period is closer than believed?

Huffing, she storms toward the gun range as if she knows exactly where it is.

She doesn’t, but I let her pretend.

I fall into step behind her, hands in my pockets, with a grin that refuses to leave my face.

The gun range is located at the far end of the orchard, hidden behind a row of dense lemon trees. The air smells of citrus and gun oil—a combination I’ve always found comforting.

At the entrance, Azra glances around like she’s entering aforbidden world. Based on the stories I’ve heard, she grew up believing that only men could enter places like this.

Curling my hand around hers, I ask, “Ready?”

Her nod is confident, but her fingers twitch.

She’s nervous, which is strange for her.

After forcing her to don the necessary safety gear, I hand her a loaded pistol. “First rule: Always assume it’s loaded. Second: Never point it at anything you don’t intend to shoot.”

Wetting her lips, she nods.

“Third: Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”

Again, she nods.

“Fourth: Stance is just as important as the caliber of your weapon.”

I step behind her and adjust her shoulders, tuck in her elbows, and fix her grip. She’s stiff at first, but she relaxes the more I guide her.

I twist her to face the person-shaped shooting target at the end of the range, then step back. “Line up your shot, breathe out slowly, then squeeze the trigger.”

The gun trembles in her hand as she lifts it.