Page 91 of Auctioned Innocence
I’m finally starting to feel human again.
The systematic sweeps Dante’s contact warned about haven’t reached this sector yet—the searches are moving in a predictable grid pattern from the city outward.
We have maybe a week before they get here, which means time to prepare instead of just run.
And if I can become closer to Dante at the same time? Perfect.
It’s hard to ignore how every time he moves around me to adjust my stance, I feel his hesitation.
The way his hands hover before touching my shoulders. How his breathing changes when I lean into him. He’s fighting himself too, just in a different way.
And I want him to lose.
His control slips away with each new touch.
Good.
It’s about damn time.
Practicing long-range accuracy feels the most natural.
The rifle is steady in my hands, the scope familiar. This is the furthest removed from close-quarters combat, from hands grabbing at me, from being trapped and helpless.
“Breathe out when you squeeze the trigger,” Dante instructs, his chest finally pressed against my back as he adjusts my stance. But he’s not teaching me—he’s grounding me. Reminding me that I’m safe, that I’m in control.
His hand covers mine on the grip, warm and steady. I can feel every breath he takes, the solid strength of him surrounding me. This is therapy disguised as training, and we both know it.
“That tree. Four hundred yards,” he says, his breath tickling my ear. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
What I’ve learned is that I’m still me. Still capable. Still deadly when I need to be.
I exhale slowly, squeezing the trigger on the empty breath. The shot rings out. Bark explodes exactly where I aimed.
“Good girl.” His praise sends warmth through me that has nothing to do with marksmanship.
We’ve been at this most of the day—working through my responses, rebuilding my confidence, helping me process the trauma through movement.
My muscles ache, but I feel stronger.
More like myself.
Less like the helpless girl they tried to break in that mansion.
“Again,” I say, but Dante steps back.
“Break time. You’re starting to compensate for fatigue.”
I want to argue, but he’s right.
My hands are shaking slightly as I set down the rifle.
We settle on the cabin’s small porch with water and protein bars.
Dante chooses the spot with the best sight lines, always thinking like a soldier even during breaks.
He’s shed his jacket in the afternoon warmth, and I can’t help but notice how the soft flannel shirt clings to his shoulders, how the sleeves are rolled up to reveal strong forearms marked with old scars that tell stories I’ve never heard.
The mountain air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow, but what draws my attention is the way the breeze ruffles through Dante’s dark hair, making him look younger somehow.
