Page 79 of Cold Mercy

My hand darts out to the tap near his leg. I wrench it open for a split second, a burst of cold water splashing onto his pants, before I shut it off again.

He looks down at his soaked leg, then back at me, his mouth falling open in mock shock. “You wet me.”

I give him a sweet, challenging smile. Yeah. Let's call it one-one.

“Alright,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I'm stopping. Any more of this, and you're going to have a heart attack right here.”

My mouth drops open in mock outrage. “You are such a jerk.”

He doesn't answer. Instead, he leans back against the porcelain, settling deeper into the tub. He grabs my feet, pulling them back onto his chest, and closes his eyes, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Your favorite jerk.”

I stare at him, too stunned to speak, a flush rising on my neck. He doesn't open his eyes, but his thumb resumes that slow, possessive stroke against my ankle.

“Stay with me a little longer,” he says quietly. “Just for a minute, before we have to go back to the noise.”

CHAPTER 16

THOMAS

I push through the heavy doors of the range, the familiar scent of gunpowder and cold steel hitting me instantly. It’s an indoor facility, the kind with rows of partitioned lanes stretching down a long corridor, the sound of shots muffled by soundproofing but still vibrating in the air. I don't need to look for her. My eyes find her immediately, standing in lane four, her back to me, wearing earmuffs and a focused stance that makes my chest tighten.

I walk past her without a word and take the open lane two spots down. I glance at her target as I set up. It’s decent work for a civilian, mostly center mass, though a few stray shots drift wide. She’s learned how to hold the weapon, but she’s fighting the recoil instead of working with it.

I load my own magazine, lift the gun, and without a second of hesitation, fire five rounds in rapid succession.

The shots are deafening in the enclosed space. I hit the button to bring the target forward. Five holes, grouped so tightly in the center of the red bullseye, they look like one jagged tear.

The silence that follows is heavy, and I can feel her eyes on me before I even turn my head. She’s staring at my target first, then she looks at me, pulling her earmuffs down around her neck.

“I’d recognize that attitude from a mile away,” she says, her voice dry but her eyes dancing with amusement.

I turn fully, leaning against the partition. “Really? Would you recognize it, or are you just looking for it?”

She smiles, a genuine, unguarded thing that hits me straight in the gut.

“Hi, pretty boy.” She spreads her arms slightly, an awkward, hesitant gesture as if she’s debating whether to hug me, but the sheer relief on her face tells me she’s glad I’m here.

I just stare at her, and for a moment, I forget to answer. I’m just soaking in the fact that she’s standing there smiling at me.

She drops her hands, shoving them into the pockets of her jeans, looking a little flustered by my silence. “So... what are you doing here?”

Fuck.

I missed her so much it felt like a physical ache, so I tracked her car just to be near her. With her. I think I’ll keep that heartwarming detail tucked away for the wedding vows.

I run a hand through my hair, buying myself a second. “I used to train here a lot,” I tell her smoothly. “Felt like blowing off some steam. And look at that... here you are.”

She tilts her head, her smile turning flirty, almost challenging. “Want to practice together?”

She has no idea. She has absolutely no idea how badly I want that. How much I want to stand behind her, adjust her grip, and feel her pulse under my fingers.

“Careful, princess,” I murmur, pushing off the wall with a smirk. “Don't say I didn't warn you when your ego takes a hit.”

She rolls her eyes but turns back to her lane, loading her magazine with a determined set to her jaw. I follow her, standing just behind her shoulder, watching as she fires. The shot lands decently but high, the recoil jerking her arms up slightly. She fires again, and I see the same flinch, the same tension in her shoulders.

“You're fighting the gun,” I say, stepping closer. “You're trying to dominate the recoil instead of riding it.”