“Is there something I should know? Is it a torture chamber or . . .” My mind grasps at any gruesome notion.
“No. A torture chamber would be more fitting for the attic.” He winks. Although the comedic relief falls short of our usual banter, half a smile corks my mouth. These are Victor’s schemes.
On my way downstairs, I consider calling Aliyah. I’ve needed a friendly chat. But I can’t stop the depressing thought that maybe I shouldn’t have closed Urban Gardens and calling Aliyah would be a reminder of that.
Does my decision to “start over the right way” seem like another coping mechanism?
“Damn,” I murmur. “I haven’t started anything. I’ve been here. In Victor’s world.”
Alittle while later, I arrive at the gun range. Victor’s staring through the scope of a sniper rifle. I didn’t even notice before that the wall retracts. The shooting range expands from indoor to outdoor, and the target is at least a few miles away.
“Good morning.” I wave a hand after he empties the clip.
He removes the earphones. His face is all glorious emotionless angles. “Are you ready?”
“I guess.” I stand there astonished. While in this room, I’m in the company of a stranger.
“No guessing allowed.”
“Okay, Your Royal Highness.” I smirk. “I was just enjoying watching you. It’s a bit sexy. Is that why you’re forcing me to practice? You want to turn me into an assassin?”
He doesn’t laugh at my joke. “Are you ready for your training?”
“Yes.” I sigh.
“Show me.” Victor’s blue eyes lock onto mine.
“I’m not in the mood. I’m at the part in my parents’ marriage where Momma’s pregnant, hormonal. Dad’s having a hard time putting her first while Greco Tech has its first expansion.”
“They’re not getting along.”
I don’t know if it’s a question or a statement.
“Nope . . . But relationships are validated by their ability to reshape, mold, take on challenges. That’s how they came to be the parents I last remember.” I test Victor to add Uncle Charles into the equation. When he doesn’t, I say, “I'm ready.” Confidence edges my shoulders.
“Head shot.”
“What?”Okay, a momentary lapse in confidence.
“Head shot,” Victor repeats, knowing good and well that I heard the first time.
I pick up my gun and shoot.
The shot lands at the chin. With furrowed eyebrows, I turn to Victor. I’m not entirely sure if this qualifies as a decent headshot.
“Perfect, Little One. Perfect.”
He pulls me toward him. At last, life ripples across his features, and my heart patters at the sight of his elation.
“Stop that. Smile and don't doubt,” Victor adds, knowing me so very well.
When he leans down and kisses me, all thoughts pass away.
29
Victor
Calculating.