James

I don’t answer right away because that booming voice inside my head tells me to stop.

Forget this. 

Get her back inside. 

Protect her. 

From the violence. From the blood. From having to make the kind of impossible choice that forever taints your soul—the kind that stains and corrupts in a way that never quite washes clean.

That’s the old instinct in me. The one who wants to wrap her up and lock her away, keep her safe and untouched by a world determined to scar her the same way it scarred me.

But the truth presses in just as hard.

Victor doesn’t care about protecting her soul. He doesn’t care about keeping her safe. And he sure as hell doesn’t care what she deserves.

And if he manages to take me off the board—if I’m not there when it matters most—then keeping her oblivious to his brand of evil won’t save her.

It will only leave her vulnerable.

Helpless.

The thought makes something vicious coil in my chest. Rage—sharp and hungry. The part of me that wants blood. Wants retribution. Wants to burn Victor’s world to the ground for forcing this choice on me at all.

The monster is loud right now. Relentless. Furious.

And that’s what worries me.

Because speaking while its claws are dug in this deep means I might say something I can’t take back. I might turn this into a demand instead of a choice. I might scare her. Hurt her. Push her—one way or the other—before she’s ready.

I refuse to do that.

So I breathe.

Once.

Then again.

Until the noise inside me settles just enough that I can trust myself not to become the very monster I’m trying to protect her from.

Instead of answering her, I decide it’s better to show her.

I turn slightly, angling my body as I reach beneath my sweatshirt for the gun holstered at my waist. When my fingers close around the familiar weight, my chest tightens.

I bring my hand back into view and open my palm, the gun resting there—dark and solid against my skin.

I don’t raise it.

I don’t point it.

I don’t explain.

I just let her see it.

Her gaze drops instantly, breath catching for half a second before she steadies it again. Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, she just looks at it. Like she’s trying to understand what this means before deciding how to feel about it.

Before fear can take root, I finally speak.

“Before we go any further,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and even—relaxed in a way I definitely don’t feel. “I need you to hear me.”

Her eyes lift to mine.

“I’m not asking you to use it,” I say. “And I’m not asking you to like it.” I swallow, the words heavier than they should be. “What I’m asking is that you give it a chance. Give me a chance—to show you, to teach you, to give you the option of knowing what to do if the need ever arises.”

Her breath stutters. Her eyes shimmer. Her mouth opens like she wants to say something—but nothing comes out.

So I keep going.

“What you did before—running to get free of him—that was smart.” My jaw tightens despite myself. “That choice kept you alive. It brought you home. To safety. To the team.”

To me, that voice inside me adds. 

Her throat works as she swallows, eyes shining but steady.

“But running isn’t always possible,” I continue quietly. “And I don’t want that to be the only option you have.”

Because I can’t promise I’ll always be there.

Because history has already proven I’m often too late.

Tyler’s face flashes through my mind, and the guilt slams into me hard enough that I have to stop. To swallow. To breathe through the ache tightening my chest.

I drag a hand over my mouth, over the rough scruff of my jaw, hoping it’s enough to hide the tremor in my chin.

“Know this isn’t an order,” I say once I trust my voice again. “It’s a choice.” I pause, making sure she understands that part most of all. “You don’t have to do anything that doesn’t feel right to you.”

The words cost me more than I let on. Letting go always does. I drop my gaze to the ground between us so she won’t see it—so she won’t feel pressured into choosing this just because it’s what I want.

“I know it’s a lot,” I add quietly. “But if there ever comes a time when I’m not there—when I can’t get to you…” My voice roughens. “…I’d feel better knowing you know how to use one of these.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. 

She just looks at me like she’s weighing not just the weapon, but what touching it, learning it, might mean.

Then she nods. “Okay.”

Something in my chest loosens. 

I close my fingers around the gun, instinctively checking the safety—muscle memory taking over.

“We’ll start with the basics. Remember—you call the shots here. If you reach a point where you’re uncomfortable, you tell me. We stop.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“I know,” she says softly. “I understand. And I appreciate it.”

And I realize she’s not just talking about the gun.

I take a step closer—not enough to crowd her, just enough that she knows I’m there. That I’ve got her.

“This part matters more than any other.”  

I bring the gun back into view, keeping it angled down and away from both of us. My movements are slow. Deliberate. Every habit I’ve built over the years stripped back to intention instead of instinct.

“Before you even think about touching a gun,” I say, “you need to know how to handle it safely. That starts with the safety being engaged. Always. Until you’re ready to discharge the weapon.”

Her attention sharpens immediately. No fear. No bravado. Just focus.

So far, so good.

I show her how to check the safety. How to hold the weapon, adjusting her hands until they’re placed just right—until she can feel the balance and weight of it before her mind has a chance to get ahead of her body. 

I don’t rush. 

I don’t overwhelm her.

Right now, it’s about familiarity. About making her comfortable.

“Your finger stays off the trigger,” I say, guiding her hand gently with mine. “Outside the trigger guard. Until you’re aligned on the target and have made the conscious decision to shoot.”

I look at her. “Repeat that back to me.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Finger off the trigger. Outside the trigger guard until I’m ready to shoot.”

Pride hits me hard enough that I have to swallow it down.

“Good,” I say instead. “Now—see that no trespassing sign? On that tree right there?”

She nods.

“That’s your target. With the safety still on, I want you to aim.”

She re-checks the safety is on—slow and careful—then raises the gun, pointing it toward the tree.

“Like this?” she asks.

“Almost,” I murmur.

I step in behind her, close enough that she can feel the heat of my body at her back. My hands slide over hers, careful and steady, adjusting her angle by degrees instead of inches.

“Your dominant hand controls the grip,” I tell her softly. “Your support hand”—my fingers skim her other hand, settling it where it belongs—“keeps you steady.”

The touch is purposeful. Professional.

And still—charged.

Her shoulders ease as she listens, trusting me enough to let go of the tension she probably didn’t even realize she was holding.

We stay like that for a moment. Her hands cradled in mine. Our breathing slowly finding the same rhythm.

In.

Out.

Calm.

Relaxed.

I guide her stance next, showing her how to ground herself without locking her body, how to stay loose enough to absorb the recoil when it comes.

“That’s it,” I murmur. “You’ve got it.”

Her mouth curves just slightly, like the encouragement lands exactly where she needs it.

“Now tell me,” I say quietly. “What are you feeling? What are you thinking?”

She hesitates. “It’s… heavier than I expected. Not just physically. But what it’s meant to do. What it would mean to have to use it.”

I step back then—not because I want to, but because I need the space to answer her honestly.

“That part doesn’t change, unfortunately,” I say.

She looks over at me then, eyes searching. “Does it get easier?”

I think about all the times I’ve held that weapon. All the times I felt compelled to use it—either to protect myself or someone else.

“No,” I admit. “But you get more comfortable with it. With knowing that if the time ever comes, you’ll know what to do.”

That seems to settle her.

She asks more questions after that. Thoughtful ones. About recoil. About noise. About whether it will hurt. About what to do if her hands shake.

I answer everything. Without judgment. Without softening the truth. Making sure she understands this isn’t about being perfect.

It’s about trust.

In herself. 

In the weapon. 

In the knowledge that whether she pulls the trigger or not, the choice will always be hers.

She exhales slowly—like she’s been holding more than just her breath.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I think I’m ready to try.”

I study her for a moment, taking in the way she stands now. More grounded. More sure.

Not a woman being taught to fight back.

But a woman learning how to take a stand.

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