Chapter 22
I regretted agreeing before we reached the first gate.
The facility smelled faintly of oil, metal, and sun-warmed concrete. Targets stood in disciplined rows beyond thick safety barriers. Ethan waited near a table of equipment, looking far too entertained by my discomfort.
“I thought this was private,” I said.
“Colonel Brooks is required for range clearance,” Alexander replied.
Ethan placed a hand over his chest. “I am devastated to be considered unnecessary, Madam.”
“I consider you suspiciously cheerful.”
“Also accurate.”
Alexander gave him a look.
Ethan became professionally silent.
For the first twenty minutes, I was not allowed to touch a weapon.
Alexander taught me how the range worked, how to verify a firearm was clear, where the muzzle could and could not point, how to stand, how to keep my finger away from the trigger until I was ready.
He did not rush me.
That helped.
Then he placed the unloaded handgun in my hands.
It was heavier than I expected.
“I hate this,” I whispered.
“You don’t have to like it.”
He adjusted my grip from behind, moving my fingers with careful precision.
His chest was close to my back.
This seemed an unfair teaching method.
“Feet apart,” he said.
I obeyed.
“Knees loose.”
“They are loose.”
“They’re trembling.”
“That is a separate medical issue.”
I heard Ethan cough behind us.
Alexander loaded one round.
“Eyes on the target. Breathe. Press. Don’t jerk.”
I nodded.
Then I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked through the range.
I yelped, lost my balance, and would have fallen backwards if Alexander had not caught me around the waist.
A piece of ceiling material drifted down several yards away.
Silence followed.
I looked at the target.
Untouched.
I looked at the ceiling.
Alexander looked at the ceiling too.
Then something extraordinary happened.
He laughed.
Not the almost-smile I had learned to treasure. Not a breath of amusement hidden behind control.
A real laugh—deep, startled, completely unguarded.
Ethan stared at him as though a statue had begun singing.
“General,” he said faintly.
Alexander kept one arm around my waist while laughter shook his shoulders.
My embarrassment dissolved.
I started laughing too.
“I told you I was dangerous.”
“To architecture, apparently.”
“You made a joke.”
“Focus, Grace.”
He reset my stance.
The second shot hit the far edge of the paper target.
It was nowhere near the centre.
I celebrated as if I had won a medal.
Alexander looked at the small tear in the paper and nodded solemnly.
“The target has been informed of your presence.”
I laughed again.
Driving home, I watched his profile and thought about how rare that sound had been.
Somewhere beneath rank, grief, responsibility, and discipline lived a man who could laugh hard enough to forget himself.
I wanted more of him.
Not the General.
Alexander.
And for the first time, I decided wanting him deserved honesty.
