Page 32 of Specter Bred

"Good."

I shifted her elbow next, then lightly touched her shoulder.

"Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"Firecracker, I'm not sure you even know what that word means," I said with a chuckle.

Her brow furrowed, and her mouth opened. I could practically see the insult loading in real time.

"Remember," I added quickly, "I'm volunteering my expertise here. The least you can do is pretend to be nice."

She sighed before closing her mouth and letting her shoulders drop a bit.

"Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Trust me."

She made a skeptical noise, but eventually complied.

For a moment, the range fell silent.

"Take a breath."

She inhaled.

"Again."

Another breath.

I could see more of the tension leave her shoulders.

"You're trying to force the rifle where you want it to go," I whispered. "Stop. Let it settle naturally. Your body already knows what it's doing."

She remained still, actually taking my advice. Which honestly shocked me more than anything else that had happened tonight.

"You've spent years shooting," I continued. "Years training. Stop trying to micromanage every movement. Trust the work you've already put in."

Maeve exhaled slowly again.

The death grip she'd had on the rifle eased, and the rigid set of her shoulders softened.

"There," I said.

My voice came out lower than I intended.

For a moment, neither of us moved. I became painfully aware of how close we were standing. Acutely aware of the warmth of her skin beneath my hand and that if she turned her head, there would be almost no space between us. My pulse kicked unexpectedly.

Maeve opened her eyes.

I stepped back and nodded toward the target.

"Now shoot, Firecracker."

The rifle cracked.