The private shooting range sat three sublevels below the penthouse, buried so deep the city noise never reached. Concrete walls painted matte black, overhead lights harsh and clinical, the air thick with the metallic bite of gun oil and spent brass. Targets hung at varying distances like paper ghosts waiting to bleed. Lucien had brought me here straight after breakfast, no explanation, just a single word: "Learn."
He stood behind the firing line now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a sleek black Glock 19 disassembled on the bench in front of him. Pieces clicked together under his fingers with surgical precision. I watched, arms crossed, trying not to notice how the muscles in his forearms flexed every time he seated the slide.
"Pick it up," he said without looking at me.
I hesitated. The gun looked small on the bench, almost innocent. I wrapped my fingers around the grip. Cold. Heavy. Real.
He stepped in close behind me, chest brushing my back. "Feet shoulder-width. Knees soft. Lean forward slightly." His hands came around me, one cupping the back of mine on the grip, the other sliding over my left to steady the frame. "Breathe out slow. Then squeeze. Don't jerk."
His voice was low, intimate, vibrating against my ear. Every instruction felt like foreplay disguised as training. My pulse hammered. The necklace burned against my sternum.
I fired.
The recoil snapped through my arms like lightning. The target jerked at twenty-five yards—center mass, but off by an inch. Close. Not close enough.
Lucien's breath ghosted my neck. "Again."
I fired four more times. Each shot tighter than the last. By the fifth, the grouping looked almost deliberate. Sweat beaded at my temples. My arms ached. My body hummed with adrenaline and something darker.
He took the gun from my hand, set it down, and turned me to face him. His eyes were storm-dark, pupils blown wide.
"You're shaking," he observed.
"Recoil," I lied.
"Liar." He backed me against the soundproof wall, slow, deliberate. The concrete was cold through my shirt. His body caged me in, heat radiating off him in waves. "You've been hard since the first shot."
Heat flooded my face. Denial died on my tongue because he was right. The power, the control, the way his hands had guided mine—it had lit something feral inside me.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Tell me to stop."
I didn't.
His mouth crashed into mine instead.
This kiss was nothing like the rooftop. No restraint. No tenderness. Just raw, desperate hunger. Teeth clashed. Tongues fought. His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so he could bite down the column of my throat. I gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
He shoved a thigh between my legs, pressing up hard. Friction exploded behind my eyes. I ground against him shamelessly, chasing relief that wouldn't come yet.
"On your knees," he growled.
I dropped without thinking. The concrete bit into my kneecaps. He unbuckled his belt with one hand, the other still tangled in my hair. The sound of the zipper was obscene in the quiet range.
He freed himself—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. I stared, mouth watering, shame and want twisting together until I couldn't tell them apart.
"Open."
I did.
He slid in slow at first, letting me adjust, then deeper, hitting the back of my throat. I gagged once. He held me there, hips flexing shallowly, watching my eyes water with something like reverence.
"Good boy," he rasped. "Take it all."
I moaned around him. The vibration made him curse under his breath. His control frayed. Thrusts grew sharper, faster. My hands gripped his thighs, nails digging in. Saliva dripped down my chin. I didn't care.
He pulled out suddenly, hauled me up by the arms, spun me around, and bent me over the shooting bench. My chest hit the padded surface. Targets stared back at me, riddled with holes. Fitting.
He yanked my pants down just enough. Cool air hit my skin, then his fingers—slick with lube he must have had in his pocket all along. One finger breached me. Then two. Scissoring. Stretching. I pushed back, desperate for more.
"Beg," he ordered.
"Please," I choked out. "Lucien—fuck—please."
He lined up. Pushed in one long, relentless slide.
The stretch burned. Then bloomed into something blindingly good. I cried out, loud enough to echo off the walls. He didn't give me time to adjust—just started moving, hard, deep, punishing.
Every thrust shoved me forward against the bench. My cock rubbed against the padded edge, leaking steadily. His hand wrapped around my throat from behind—not choking, just holding. Possessive. The necklace pressed between his palm and my skin, pulsing in time with my frantic heartbeat.
"You're mine," he snarled against my ear. "Every hole. Every breath. Every fucking scream."
I shattered first. Came with a broken shout, spilling across the bench, vision whiting out. He fucked me through it, relentless, until his rhythm stuttered and he buried himself deep, pulsing inside me with a low, guttural groan.
We stayed like that for long seconds—sweat-slick, trembling, connected.
He pulled out slowly. I whimpered at the loss.
He turned me around, kissed me softer this time. Almost tender. His thumb wiped a tear from my cheek I hadn't realized had fallen.
"You did good," he murmured. "So fucking good."
I leaned into him, forehead against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
The range smelled like gunpowder and sex now.
And for the first time since the alley, I didn't feel like a stray.
I felt claimed.
Owned.
And terrifyingly, achingly alive.