“Why?” he asks with raised brows.

I roll my eyes at him and sigh deeply. “Oh, I don’t know, Caleb. Maybe because you were constantly going God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what, and I knew it was dangerous, and I was on pins and needles until you came back home safely.”

He flounders for a moment, and I realize I’ve just shocked the shit out of him.

Does he really not understand how much I care for him?

“Don’t worry about it,” I shake my head and turn away, walking briskly into the kitchen. “I’m happy you’re safe. Just don’t make jokes like that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I hear him whisper behind me, making me grin as I load the rest of the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, put a tab of soap into the round compartment and start it.

“What do you have going on today?” He asks gruffly.

“I have errands to run this morning, then I don’t have anything until the kids get home around six. I’ll start dinner around five.”

“Okay, well let’s get ready to head out then. After your errands, we have someplace to go.”

“Where?”

His face is still sober as he watches me. Something has changed in his eyes, in his posture. He looks… confused.

“You’ll see,” he mutters and turns to leave the room.

***

“I don’t know about this,” I mutter and watch as Caleb pushes a clip into his handgun with a loud snick.

“You need to learn,” he reminds me for the thousandth time since we left the post office and he told me we were coming to the shooting range.

“Why? I don’t like the idea of having a gun in the house with the girls.”

“The girls won’t be shooting it.” He passes me a pair of clear shooting glasses and ear protection.

“Caleb, accidents happen.”

“Number one,” he begins, his voice hard, jaw locked and eyes cold. He’s in military mode.

It’s fucking scary as hell.

“Any weapon in your house will either be on our person or locked away. The girls will never have an opportunity to have an accident.” He cocks an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to respond.

I’ll be damned if I will say yes, sir.

“Okay,” I respond and lift my chin.

His lips twitch before he continues.

“Number two, you need to learn this so you can protect yourself. The people who may or may not be looking for you are dangerous, and they will have firearms. Your screwdriver can’t compete with that.”

“Hey,” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“And number three,” he leans in to whisper in my ear. “Don’t be a pussy.”

That does it. Just like that, I’m fucking pissed as hell.

Pussy? I’m no damn pussy.

I narrow my eyes at him and push my face up to his. “Bring it on, sailor.”

“Good girl,” he mutters and grins down at me proudly. “Have you ever held a handgun before?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He holds it up for me to inspect. “This is the safety. It’s off because we’re about to shoot it.” He grins at me and I can tell he loves this. “This magazine has ten rounds in it. I have four more with me.”

“Got it,” I nod, staring at the black weapon in his hands, completely at a loss.

“Do you want me to go first?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

He nods, pushes his own glasses onto his face and sets his target. I glance around the range and take in the smell of gunpowder and male sweat. It’s deserted right now, in the middle of a weekday. We are at the farthest window down, and are completely alone.

And Caleb is completely in his element.

“Stand back just a bit. I don’t want one of these hot shells to hit you when it comes out of the pistol.”

“Got it.” I take my place, and when he’s satisfied that I’m safe from getting hit, he turns to the target, raises the gun in both hands, his arms extended and muscles completely flexed and takes his first shot.

And I’m immediately wet and panting.

For the love of all that’s holy this man is pure, unadulterated sex on a fucking stick.

He squeezes the trigger slowly for a couple of shots, and then empties the magazine quickly, not taking his eyes off the target.

When he looks back at me, he smiles smugly and pulls his target to him.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Fine.” I clear my throat and feel my eyes widen when his target approaches. There is a cluster of small holes in the chest and another in the top of the head. “Nice shot.”

He shrugs and replaces the target with a fresh one and sends it out. “Your turn.”

“Maybe you should take another turn,” I mention, trying to keep my voice light. I’m suddenly nervous as hell.

“Pussy,” he whispers and laughs when I glare at him. He pulls out the empty clip and hands me a new, loaded one and the gun. “Load your magazine.”

I do, clumsily.

“Relax, baby, you’ll get the hang of it. You just need practice.”

My heart stutters at baby.

“Now, face the target. Feel the weapon in your hands, Bryn. It’s heavy. When it fires, it’s going to have a bit of a recoil.”

“Oh, goody,” I murmur.

“You’ll be fine.”

I face the target and stare down at the weapon in my hand. How did I get here? How did my life come to this?

“Raise the gun.”

I follow his order and stare hard at the target roughly twenty yards from me.

I squeeze the trigger and the first shot recoils harder than I expected, making me jump and stumble back a bit.

“Easy,” Caleb murmurs behind me.

“I’m fine.” Maybe if I keep saying it I’ll start to believe it myself.

He moves up behind me and nudges my legs apart. “Widen your stance for balance.”

I fire again, and my blood thickens as adrenaline pumps hard and fast through me.

It doesn’t take a Navy SEAL to figure out how to line up the sights, and I squeeze the trigger, again and again, my body taught with aggression that I didn’t even know I’d been holding.

Shooting is great therapy.

When the magazine is empty, Caleb wordlessly shows me how to switch it out, and I continue to throw the bullets down the range, clip after clip, until all four are spent.

I set the heavy gun on the shelf, pull my goggles and earmuffs off and step back. I have to lock my knees because my legs feel like Jell-O and I’m afraid I’ll fall. My arms are humming, I’m panting, and I swear to God, I could run a marathon.