The Trigger
1266 Words
The basement of the Blackwood estate wasn't a basement. It was a fortress beneath the earth.
Clara followed Lucian down a spiral steel staircase that seemed to go on forever. The air grew cooler with every step, smelling faintly of ozone and sulfur. When they reached the bottom, Lucian swiped a keycard, and a heavy blast door hissed open.
Clara stepped inside and gasped.
It was an armory. Walls lined with racks of rifles, handguns, and knives gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. Beyond the racks was a long, soundproofed shooting range with paper targets hanging in the distance.
"Welcome to the playroom," Lucian said dryly.
He walked to a metal table and picked up a handgun. It was black, sleek, and looked terrifyingly heavy.
"This is a SIG Sauer P226," Lucian explained, checking the chamber with practiced ease. "It’s reliable. Accurate. And it stops a man in his tracks."
He turned to her, holding the weapon out grip-first.
"Take it."
Clara stared at the gun. Her hands were sweating. "Lucian, I can't. I've never touched a gun in my life. I’m a pacifist. I shelved books for a living."
"Pacifism is a luxury for the safe," Lucian said, his voice hard. "You are no longer safe. You are Mrs. Blackwood. If someone comes for you—and they will—Dante might be busy. I might be away. You need to know how to save yourself."
He didn't lower the gun. He waited.
Clara looked at his grey eyes. They were demanding, unyielding. He wasn't asking her to learn a hobby; he was ordering her to survive.
She reached out and took the gun.
It was heavier than she expected. Cold steel against her warm skin. It felt alien and wrong in her hand.
"Good," Lucian said. He grabbed a pair of noise-canceling earmuffs and placed them over her head. The world went silent, muffled.
He gestured for her to walk to the firing line.
Clara stood in front of the lane. The paper target—a silhouette of a man—hung ten yards away. She raised the gun, her arms trembling. She held it loosely, terrified it would go off by accident.
Lucian shook his head. He stepped up behind her.
Suddenly, his body was pressed against hers. His chest was a solid wall of heat against her back. He reached around, his large hands covering hers on the grip of the gun.
"Firm grip," he spoke, his voice vibrating through her body even with the earmuffs on. "Don't choke it, but don't let it go. High on the backstrap."
He adjusted her fingers, molding her hands to the weapon. His touch was clinical, yet scorching.
"Spread your feet," he commanded.
Clara hesitated. Lucian didn't wait; he nudged the inside of her ankle with his boot, forcing her legs apart into a stable stance.
"Lean into it," he murmured, his mouth inches from her ear. "If you lean back, the recoil will knock you over. Lean forward. Aggressive."
Clara leaned forward, trusting him to hold her up. He was enveloping her, his arms acting as a cage and a shield all at once. The smell of whiskey and sandalwood filled her senses, drowning out the smell of gun oil.
"Breathe," Lucian instructed. "In... out... squeeze the trigger at the bottom of your breath. Don't pull it. Squeeze it. Like you're trying to touch your fingertip to your palm."
Clara inhaled. She felt Lucian’s chest expand against her back. They were breathing in sync.
In.
Out.
She squeezed.
BANG.
The gun kicked back violently, shocking her arms. The casing pinged against the concrete floor.
Clara gasped, adrenaline flooding her veins. She looked at the target.
She had missed the silhouette completely. The bullet had hit the dirt backstop.
"I missed," she shouted over the ringing in her ears.
"You didn't drop the gun," Lucian said, pulling the earmuffs off one of her ears. "That’s a win for a first timer. Again."
"Lucian, I can't aim—"
"Again."
For the next hour, he drilled her. He was relentless. He adjusted her shoulders, he corrected her elbows, he touched her hips to square them to the target. Every touch was a lesson, but every touch also lit a fire under her skin.
By the fiftieth shot, Clara’s arms were shaking from exhaustion.
"Last magazine," Lucian said, handing her a fresh clip. "Clear your mind, Clara. It’s not about the gun. It’s about intent. You have to want to hit the target. Imagine it’s the man who drilled your lock. Imagine it’s Marcus."
Clara closed her eyes. She pictured the debt collectors destroying her father’s apartment. She pictured the fear she felt every day. She channeled it into her hands.
She opened her eyes. She raised the gun. She didn't wait for Lucian’s help this time. She leaned in, exhaled, and squeezed.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Three shots.
She lowered the gun and looked downrange.
Two shots had hit the outer ring of the silhouette. One had hit the shoulder.
"I hit him," Clara whispered, a strange, dark thrill curling in her stomach. "I hit him."
Lucian took the gun from her hands and engaged the safety. He placed it on the table and turned to her. He looked at the target, then back at her. His eyes were dark, glowing with something that looked dangerously like pride.
"You hit him," he agreed.
He reached out and removed her earmuffs, tossing them aside. His hair was slightly messed up, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked raw.
"How does it feel?" he asked softly.
Clara looked at her hands. They were covered in invisible residue, trembling not from fear anymore, but from power.
"Terrifying," she admitted.
"Good," Lucian said. "Power should be terrifying. If it isn't, you're not respecting it."
He stepped closer, invading her space again. The adrenaline was still high between them, crackling like static electricity.
"You are a fast learner, Clara," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. "Dangerous."
"Is that a compliment coming from you?"
"The highest one I can give."
He raised his hand, his thumb brushing a smudge of gunpowder off her cheek. The gesture was shockingly intimate in the cold, harsh light of the armory. Clara stopped breathing. She thought he was going to kiss her again, like he had in the church. She realized with a jolt that she wanted him to.
But Lucian pulled back, the mask of the CEO sliding back into place.
"Clean up," he said, turning away. "We have the Governor’s Ball tomorrow. And that requires a different kind of weapon."
"What kind?" Clara asked, her voice breathless.
Lucian paused at the door. He looked back at her over his shoulder, his silhouette framed by the darkness of the hallway.
"Charm," he said. "And deception. Tomorrow, you don't need to shoot anyone, Clara. You just need to make them believe you are the happiest woman in Chicago. Can you do that?"
Clara looked at the target with the bullet holes in the shoulder. She straightened her spine.
"I can do anything," she said.
Lucian smirked. "I’m beginning to believe you can."
(To be continued...)
- Writer
