Page 81 of Reckless Obsession

Oh, good.

Exactly where I want to be. Wedged between Anton’s control issues and Alex’s silent murder energy.

I grab a bow from the rack and step into place, ignoring the fresh ache blooming low in my body as I move.

“We’re here to shoot, drink, and maybe remember we’re brothers before one of you actually puts an arrow through the other,” Anton says, finally looking between us. “Sound good?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, nocking my first arrow. “Sounds fucking fantastic.”

The first arrow leaves my string with a vicious twang and flies wide, sinking into the outer ring with a dull, pathetic thud.

I lower the bow slowly and exhale through my nose, like I can force the irritation out with the breath alone. It doesn’t work. It only sinks deeper, heavier, coiling tighter in my gut until it feels like something alive in there, something ugly and sharp-toothed.

“Again,” Anton orders, his deep voice as calm as ever.

I mutter a curse under my breath and reach for another arrow. This time I pull harder, drawing the string back with enough force to make my fingers sting. I anchor it and hold longer than I need to, like if I stand still enough, or force my body into discipline, I can drag the rest of myself into line with it.

Focus.

Just fucking focus.

I release.

It misses again.

Worse this time.

“You’re not focusing enough,” Anton says, his voice full of that steady, authoritative patience that makes me want to throw the bow into a tree. “What’s distracting you?”

“Maybe if I wasn’t standing next to Mr. Perpetual Mood Killer, I wouldn’t be so fucking irritated trying to shoot goddamn arrows,” I snap before I can swallow it.

Alex’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.

Instead, he draws an arrow with the same practiced economy he uses in everything. Slow, precise, and clean. Alex never rushes; he takes his time and moves as if the world should adapt to his rhythm, not the other way around.

He releases.

The arrow drives into the bullseye so hard the shaft trembles.

“Impressive,” I drawl, layering the sarcasm thick and poisonous. “Guess you were picturing my face on that target, huh?”

“Jesus, Maksim,” Anton mutters in Russian, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t bring us out here for this.”

“Let him run his mouth,” Alex says, his voice hard as steel as he reaches for another arrow. “Maybe if he gets it all out, he’ll finally shoot straight.”

“Oh, fuck off, Alex.”

The anger in me flares so fast it almost blinds me. It’s already been building all morning, crawling under my skin, poisoning every thought, and now it finally has somewhere to go.

“You always do this,” I snap. “You always like you’re above everything, as if you’re the saint in the room, the righteous one, the quiet one, the perfect son.”

That gets his full attention.

Alex turns his head and looks at me like I’ve suddenly started speaking in tongues.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he demands, and now there’s anger in his voice too, low and rising.

I turn to face him fully, chest heaving, my grip tightening around the bow until it bites into my palm. Hurt and rage crash together so hard inside me I can’t separate them anymore. They come out in the same voice, the same glare, the same shaking breath.