Chapter 22
Ava
That morning, I woke up to Misha playing chess with himself. It was a delicious sight. His shirt was off, displaying curved muscle and the coded holy cross on his chest. His designer boxer briefs hugged his sculpted thighs and did a horrible job hiding the bulge of his cock.
Sitting up, I rubbed my eyes. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Why sleep and dream, when my waking days are much more exciting?” He placed the unicorn peace onto the third board and took an enemy rook. Then he rose from his seat, went to the enemy’s side, sat down, and gazed at the boards. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine.” I left the bed. “You should get some rest, Misha.”
“I will soon. For now, there are things to do.” He studied his game.
I strolled over to him and touched his shoulder. “Who’s winning—left you or right you?”
“Left me has a good advance but right me won’t lose without a serious fight.” He looked up, captured me by the waist, and lowered me onto his lap. “How’s your body? A monster attacked you last night.”
I smirked. “Did he? I barely remember.”
“You’re lucky that I can’t punish you.”
I held mock shock on my face. “Why would I need to be punished?”
“You’re taunting my cock.” He kissed me. “Take a shower and get dressed, please. I don’t have much time with you before I leave.”
I left his lap. “Leave?”
“I’m going to Paris tonight.”
“To help your cousin get his property back?”
“Exactly.”
“And what about the Xecutioners?”
“I’ll be meeting with them around lunch. Which only gives me the morning to spend with you.”
My nerves flared. “Can I do anything to help?”
“Get dressed quickly.” He returned to the chess boards. “I don’t want to waste any of our time together.”
“Okay.” I hurried off, pushing my worry away. This was Misha’s world. If I stood around arguing with him about shit I didn’t know about, it could mess him up. This morning there was a different energy about him. The way he focused on his game and the look in his eyes told me that there were a lot of plans being mapped out in his mind.
What is he going to do?
A half an hour later, we were both dressed in jeans and shirts. I realized in that moment that I wasn’t used to seeing Misha in such a relaxed attire. A computer decorated his shirt. On the screen was a broken heart.
We stood in a room next to the computer area. There hadn’t been a door to enter it, just a wall that slid open. Misha had accessed the concealed room by placing his hand on the wall’s surface. Then the whole wall opened.
I scanned the space.
The hidden room was clean and painted all white. Shelves lined the four walls. Those shelves were full of weapons—long guns, rifles, shotguns, and machine guns. Boxes of ammunition stacked the bottom of each shelf.
Misha walked over to one shelf, picked up a small handgun, studied it, and handed the weapon to me. “This is yours. Kahr CW9. 9mm Luger.”
“Mine?”
“You have small hands. This would be one of the best guns for you. Simple design. Nice and small. You can put it in your pocketbook. I’ll get Valentina’s handbag designer to make you some nice ones.”
I swallowed. “Okay.”
“I thought about what you said yesterday. You want to help me. The best way is to stay alive.”
I held the gun’s point away from both of us and assessed the cold metal.
“I need you, Ava. Nothing would ruin me more than if something happened to you. That means that even if your guards are destroyed. . .you have this gun to shoot the person and then race to freedom.”
I blinked.
“Do you understand?”
My heartbeats increased. “Yes.”
“The CW9 is reliable and accurate. It uses a seven-round, single-stack magazine.” He went to the bottom of one shelf, bent over, and picked up a box of bullets. “Let’s test your new gun out.”
“O-kay.”
He guided me to the end of the room. Right in the corner was a lever. He pulled it. The wall slid to the right, shocking me again.
Why do I keep getting surprised down here? Shouldn’t I be used to all of this by now?
In front of us stood a small gun range. There were four lanes. Hooks and wire were on the ceiling. In front of each lane was a stall.
Misha turned to me. “Are you ready?”
I gulped in fear. “Ready.”
The rest of the morning, Misha showed me how to properly care for my gun—safety measures, loading, cleaning, and the best ways to store it. After that, he gave me goggles and headphones. I put them on. He put his own on too.
Next, he taught me how to shoot. He was an amazing teacher. With that signature finesse of his, he talked with his hands, moving them back and forth. When he ended his sentences, he dotted his index fingers in the air. When he had a major point, he raised them.