Page 59 of Hunted

But I swallowed my fear, choked down the panic-induced nausea swelling in my gut, and instigated a round of box breathing to steady myself.

I was a certified badass. I was that bitch. And I was going to prove to my weapons instructor—to myself—that I was absolutely the best choice for Eagle.

The only choice for Eagle.

Lining up the tree within the scope and angling the rifle for the expected gravitational pull on the bullet, I squeezed the trigger gently.

Jesus fucking Christ, this gun is butter-smooth, was my first thought after firing.

Damn it all to hell, was the second, when I missed the marked tree completely, hitting one a few metres in front and to the left.

Pearce let out a quiet whistle through his teeth. His breath brushed against my throat, cool and sweet, like that strawberry gum I’d tried once as a withering teen. Before I’d learned to steal.

It was the only thing I’d been able to afford in that dimly lit convenience store, and had only served to make me hungrier. Smelling the same scent now on Pearce’s breath only served to stir up the same feelings of starvation and inadequacy—especially coupled with the fact that I’d missed my mark in front of him.

“Honestly, if you’d hit that first go, I’d have resigned immediately and recommended you for the position,” he laughed. “Now you know how the weapon feels.” He reached around me, brushing his palm over my right hand. “You know how it’ll react to your gentlest touch.” His left drifted across my collarbone. Then he cleared his throat, shifting behind me. “Try again. Account for all the things you just felt and witnessed. You’ve got this, Addie.”

Addie. He called me Addie.

It felt oddly personal, even if it was anything but.

I took another deep breath—because this man was inciting panic with every damned gesture—and lined the tree up again. The trigger felt smooth beneath my finger, the weight of the stock at my shoulder, reassuring.

“Squeeze on the exhale,” he murmured.

“Yes, Sir,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

His quiet, rolling chuckle danced up my spine. I repressed a shiver.

“Careful, Deadly. You might unwittingly stumble upon someone’s kink if you keep talking like that.”

Coherent thought fled me. My jaw dropped open until I realised and snapped it shut with an audible, teeth-clacking snick.

Unable to come up with any kind of witty comeback that didn’t involve enthusiasm or drool, I bailed, finding refuge in the task at hand. I lined up the tree for a third time, readying to perfect my shot.

Inhale. Hold for four seconds.

Exhale.

…what the fuck is that?

A millisecond before I squeezed the trigger, something bouncing and red snagged my attention through the scope. Something coming down the track.

I stared until it came into view—eyes fixed, unblinking, on that speck of red. And when it reappeared—when I understood exactly what I was looking at—I went rigid.

The urge to shoot was unmatched; a visceral primal need.

Abstractly, I registered Pearce peering over my shoulder to discern the source of my hesitation. But it wasn’t hesitation at all—it was a war between desire and conflict wreaking havoc on my nervous system.

It would be so easy…

And then I pulled the trigger.

Sebastos Varco and his stupid red ball cap didn’t even see it coming.

Nor did the poor tree behind him. The bullet crashed through layers of bark inches above his thick head with a sharp, resounding crack. Seb fell over backwards, eyes darting around wildly trying to locate the source of his almost-demise.

Scowling, I grunted, “I missed.”