Chapter 3: The Range and the Truth
The coffee was cold.
Raven sat on the edge of Nikolai's bed, the sheet pooled around her waist, watching him dress. He moved with a precision that felt military—each button, each cuff, each fold of fabric a small, deliberate act. She'd never seen anyone put on a shirt like it was armor.
The city hummed beyond the windows. Morning light cut across the floor in sharp, accusatory lines.
"You're staring," he said without turning.
"You're interesting."
He laughed. The same laugh from the night before—low, private, like she'd caught him off guard.
"I have somewhere to be," he said.
"Okay."
"You're coming with me."
It wasn't a question.
She stood. Let the sheet fall. Watched his reflection in the window—the way his hands stilled on his tie, the way his jaw tightened.
"Where?" she asked.
"You'll see."
---
The car took them north, away from the glass towers and manicured streets, into a part of the city Raven had never seen. Warehouses. Chain-link fences. The smell of salt and diesel and something older, darker.
She didn't ask questions.
He didn't offer answers.
The building they stopped at looked abandoned—red brick and rusted metal, windows blacked out with paint. A man stood at the door. Tall. Gray at the temples. A scar cut through his left eyebrow like a signature.
"Boss," he said.
"Sergei."
The man's eyes slid to Raven. Assessed. Dismissed.
"She's with me," Nikolai said.
The man nodded. Stepped aside.
The door opened into a corridor that swallowed sound. Their footsteps echoed. The air smelled like gunpowder and concrete dust.
"You're taking me to a shooting range," she said.
"You've been here before?"
"I've been to ranges. This one's... different."
"Different how?"
She looked at the walls. The reinforced steel. The cameras in every corner.
"It feels like a place where people disappear."
He didn't answer. Just pushed open a door at the end of the hall.
---
The range was cavernous.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a cold, clinical glow. Concrete walls. Concrete floor. Concrete ceiling. The kind of space designed to absorb bullets and screams and whatever else happened here after dark.
Waterfront windows ran along one wall—thick, reinforced glass that framed the jagged skyline. The city looked distant. Irrelevant. A world away from this place where people came to practice killing.
Nikolai walked to a counter at the far end. Metal. Scratched. A Glock sat on it like an offering.
He picked it up. Checked the chamber. Set it back down.
"Show me," he said.
Raven crossed the room. Her boots echoed. She picked up the Glock—felt its weight, its cold precision—and checked the magazine.
Full.
She racked the slide. Raised the gun. Fired.
The crack was deafening. The paper target twenty yards away jerked. Center mass.
She fired again. Again. Again. Each shot a punctuation mark. Each recoil a small, controlled violence.
The magazine emptied. She ejected it. Reloaded. Fired again.
When she was done, the target's center was a ragged hole. Tight grouping. Center mass. Head. Center mass.
She set the gun down. Turned to face him.
Nikolai's eyebrows had lifted. Just slightly. Just enough.
"Where'd you learn to shoot?" he asked.
"My father."
"Was he military?"
"Was."
He nodded. Picked up the Glock. Checked the empty chamber.
"You're good," he said.
"I know."
"Modest."
"Honest."
He set the gun down again. Walked toward her. Slow. Deliberate.
"The first man I killed," he said, "was nineteen years old."
She didn't move.
"He owed my father money. Small debt. Nothing that should have mattered. But my father wanted to make a point, so he sent me. Told me to collect or kill. I chose kill."
"Why?"
"Because collecting meant going back. Killing meant moving forward."
He stopped a few feet away. Close enough that she could see the shadows under his eyes. The lines around his mouth.
"I shot him in the chest. Twice. Just like you did that target. He fell. He bled. He died."
"How did it feel?"
"I threw up. Then I went home and ate dinner with my family. My mother asked how my day was. I told her it was fine."
Raven didn't flinch. Didn't look away.
"And after?" she asked.
"After, I stopped counting."
He walked past her. Toward the firing lane. Toward the window where the city sprawled like a kingdom waiting to be claimed.
"I've killed forty-seven men," he said. "Maybe more. I stopped keeping track around thirty. Some were business. Some were personal. Some were just... because I could."
He turned. Looked at her.
"Does that scare you?"
She thought about it. Really thought about it. The weight of what he was saying. The lives he'd taken. The blood on his hands.
"No," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because you didn't have to tell me."
He stared at her. Something shifting behind his eyes. Something she couldn't name.
"I have a brother," he said. "Younger. Stupid. He thinks he wants this life. Thinks it's about money and power and respect. He doesn't understand what it costs."
"Are you going to let him in?"
"I'm going to protect him from it. As long as I can."
"And when you can't?"
"I'll bury him."
The words hung in the air. Heavy. Final.
Raven stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell the gunpowder on his hands. The coffee on his breath. The something darker underneath.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.
"Because you should know what you're getting into."
"I already know."
"You don't."
"Then tell me."
He reached for her. Hand cupping her jaw. Thumb brushing across her cheekbone.
"I'm not a good man," he said.
"I never thought you were."
"I've done terrible things."
"I know."
"I'll do more."
"I know."
"So why are you still here?"
She leaned into his touch. Closed her eyes. Breathed him in.
"Because for the first time in years," she said, "I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
---
He kissed her.
Not soft. Not gentle. Like he was trying to consume her. Like he was trying to prove something.
She kissed him back. Hands in his hair. Body pressed against his. The gun still on the counter. The city still watching through the reinforced glass.
He pulled back. Breathing hard. Eyes dark.
"Say it again," he said.
"What?"
"That you want to be here."
"I want to be here."
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours."
He groaned. Low. Rough. Something breaking loose in his chest.
He grabbed her. Spun her around. Pressed her against the concrete wall beside the firing lane. Cold. Rough. The texture bit into her back through her shirt.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
"Don't stop."
"Tell me—"
"Fuck me, Nikolai. Now."
He yanked her leggings down. Rough. Impatient. Fabric tearing at the seam. She didn't care.
His fingers found her. Slick. Ready. He pushed two inside and she arched against him, breath hissing through her teeth.
"You're already wet," he said.
"Since the first shot."
He laughed. Dark. Hungry. Pulled his fingers out and undid his pants. His cock was thick, hard, leaking at the tip. He ran it along her slit—coating himself in her wetness—and then pushed inside her in one brutal stroke.
She cried out. The sound bounced off the concrete. Echoed. Disappeared.
He fucked her slow. Deep. Each thrust deliberate. Each stroke hitting something that made her vision blur.
"You're not a secret," he whispered against her ear. "You're not a fling."
She gripped his shoulders. Nails digging in. Legs wrapped around his waist.
"You're mine," he said. "Do you understand?"
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
The words came out broken. Desperate. Honest.
He moved faster. Hips slamming into her. The wall scraped her back raw. She didn't care. She wanted it. Wanted him. Wanted every mark, every bruise, every reminder.
"Again," he growled.
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours—I'm yours—I'm yours—"
She came. Hard. Around him. Body clenching. Vision white. The echo of the last gunshot still ringing in her ears.
He followed a moment later. Pulsing inside her. Groaning into her neck.
They stayed there. Pressed against concrete. Breathing hard. The city watching through the glass.
He pulled out slowly. Set her down. Helped her fix her ruined leggings.
"I'm going to teach you everything I know," he said.
She looked at him. Saw the truth in his eyes. The promise. The threat.
"Everything?" she asked.
"Everything."
She believed him.
---
They left the range an hour later.
Sergei was waiting outside. Same expression. Same assessment. But this time, when his eyes found Raven, something flickered. Something that looked almost like respect.
"How'd she shoot?" he asked.
"Better than you," Nikolai said.
Sergei grunted. Almost a laugh.
"Where to?" he asked.
"Home."
Sergei nodded. Opened the car door.
Raven climbed in. Nikolai followed. His hand found hers in the dark.
"You're quiet," he said.
"That's because I'm terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of how much I liked that."
He squeezed her hand.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm going to make you like it even more."
The car pulled away. The range disappeared behind them. And somewhere in the distance, the city hummed on—oblivious to the two people in the back of a black sedan with gunpowder on their hands and blood in their history and something that felt dangerously close to love in their chests.
She held on.
He held on back.
He held on back.
The city blurred past the tinted windows, all neon and shadow and the wet gleam of asphalt still slick from the morning rain. Raven watched it move without seeing it. Her hand was still in his, fingers intertwined, and she could feel the heat coming off his skin like he was running a fever.
She should say something.
She didn't.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was loaded. Full of things unsaid. Full of everything that had happened in that concrete room with the gunpowder and the echo of violence.
Sergei drove without looking back. The partition was up. A small mercy.
Nikolai's thumb traced circles on the back of her hand. Slow. Methodical. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of her bones.
"You're shaking," he said.
"Adrenaline."
"Bullshit."
She turned to look at him. His profile was sharp against the passing lights—jaw tight, eyes forward, something coiled and waiting beneath the surface.
"I'm fine," she said.
"You're lying."
"So?"
"So I want to know why."
She pulled her hand away. Folded her arms. The leather seat creaked beneath her.
"It's nothing."
"Raven."
"It's nothing, Nikolai."
He didn't push. Just looked at her with those blue eyes that seemed to see through skin and bone and every lie she'd ever told.
The car stopped.
The building was his. Of course it was. Glass and steel and a doorman who nodded without making eye contact. The elevator ride was silent. The hallway was silent. The apartment swallowed them whole.
She walked to the window. Looked out at the city. The rain had started again—soft, persistent, tapping against the glass like it was trying to get in.
"I have to be honest with you," she said.
His reflection appeared behind hers. Close but not touching.
"Okay."
"You asked where I learned to shoot like that."
"I did."
She turned. Faced him. The words were there, sitting in her throat like stones she'd been swallowing for years.
"My dad worked for the cartel."
Nikolai didn't move. Didn't blink. Just waited.
"I grew up in the Ozarks on a huge farm. That farm made and distributed meth and cocaine. You learned to shoot or my dad beat you until you learned to shoot."
She paused. Waited for the flinch. Waited for the pity. Waited for him to look at her differently.
He didn't.
"You went to practices," she continued. "He called them practices. They were just group beatings."
Her voice was flat. Clinical. Like she was reading from a file that belonged to someone else.
"His security was his own kids. And he always took trades of kids for debts owed to him. Kids are moldable, he said. You can beat them into submission."
She laughed. It came out broken. Ugly.
"And oh, he did. All the time. His kids—he did not spare. No one came on our farm unless invited. It was shoot first, no questions asked if we found you there."
The rain kept falling. The city kept humming. The world kept spinning like nothing had changed.
"My father constantly made me execute people."
She stopped. Swallowed. The next words were the hardest.
"When I turned eighteen, I packed a bag, never looked back, and left. No more beating into submission."
She looked at him. Really looked at him. The way he was standing. The way he was breathing. The way his hands were still at his sides, not reaching, not retreating.
"Not even Bree knows that. No one does. I act like I'm normal."
Her voice cracked.
"I'm not."
The silence that followed was enormous.
Nikolai stood there, still as stone, and she waited for the inevitable. The recoil. The distance. The careful extraction. It's what people did when they found out. It's what Bree would do if she ever knew. It's what anyone with half a brain would do.
He walked toward her.
Slow. Deliberate. The way he moved when he was about to do something she'd remember.
He stopped a breath away. His hand came up. Cupped her jaw. Thumb brushed across her cheekbone.
"I know," he said.
She blinked.
"What?"
"I know."
"How—"
"I ran your name the day after the party. Before I texted you. Before I fucked you. Before any of this."
Her blood went cold.
"You what?"
"I ran your name. Your father. Your farm."
She pulled back. His hand fell.
"You—"
"Raven."
"Did you know? This whole time? Was this—"
"No."
"Then why—"
"Because I needed to know who I was dealing with."
She laughed. Harsh. Bitter.
"You needed to know who you were dealing with? You're a fucking mob boss."
"I'm a businessman."
"Same fucking thing."
He didn't argue. Just stood there. Watching her.
"You should have told me," she said.
"You should have told me."
"I just did."
"Eight days late."
She wanted to hit him. Wanted to scream. Wanted to walk out and never look back.
Instead, she stayed.
"Why?" she asked. "Why didn't you say anything?"
He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him. The weight of him.
"Because I wanted you to tell me. I wanted you to trust me enough."
"And if I hadn't?"
"Then I would have waited."
"For how long?"
"As long as it took."
She stared at him. Something cracking open in her chest.
"You're insane," she said.
"You've mentioned that."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He reached for her again. She let him.
"You didn't flinch," he said. "When I told you what I've done. The men I've killed. The things I am."
"You didn't flinch either."
"I've had practice."
"So have I."
He kissed her.
Different this time. Softer. Slower. Like he was trying to say something he didn't have words for.
She melted into him. Hands in his hair. Body pressed against his.
"I told you," he murmured against her lips. "I knew what you were."
"You didn't know everything."
"I knew enough."
He pulled back. Looked at her. The blue eyes were warm now. Tender in a way that made her chest ache.
"You're not broken," he said. "You're forged."
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
He took her hand. Led her through the apartment. Past the windows, past the city, past everything that had happened before this moment.
The bedroom was dark. Quiet. His bed was the same one she'd slept in a week ago, when all she knew was his body and his silence.
He undressed her slowly. Each button. Each zip. Each layer of armor peeled away.
She did the same for him. Hands steady. Breath uneven.
When they were bare, he walked her backward. The bed caught the backs of her knees. She sat. He knelt.
His hands spread her thighs.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
His mouth found her. Hot and wet and demanding. Tongue sliding through her folds, circling her clit, pushing inside her like he was trying to taste every secret she'd ever kept.
She gasped. Hands in his hair. Hips bucking.
"Fuck—"
He groaned against her. The vibration made her see stars.
He ate her like she was the last meal he'd ever have. Licking. Sucking. Fucking her with his tongue while his fingers pushed inside her, curling, pressing, finding that spot that made her vision go white.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please—"
"Tell me."
"I need to come."
"Then come."
She did.
Hard. Around his fingers. On his tongue. Crying out his name like it was the only word she knew.
He didn't stop. Lapped at her through the aftershocks. Drank her down until she was trembling. Until she was pushing him away because it was too much.
He climbed up her body. Kissed her. The taste of herself on his lips.
"Turn over," he said.
She did.
On her hands and knees. Exposed. Vulnerable. The position felt like surrender.
He positioned himself behind her. The head of his cock pressing against her entrance. Hot. Thick. Ready.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
"Don't you dare."
He pushed inside.
Slow. Deep. Every inch an act of possession.
She moaned. Fists clenched in the sheets.
"You're mine," he said.
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
He started to move. Hard strokes. Deep. Each thrust pushing her toward the headboard.
"Again."
"I'm yours—"
"Again."
"I'm yours—I'm yours—I'm yours—"
He fucked her through it. Through the confessions. Through the tears she didn't realize she was crying. Through everything she'd buried and everything she'd become.
When she came, it was violent. Body clenching. Vision gone. A scream ripped from somewhere deep.
He followed. Spilling inside her. Groaning her name like a prayer.
They collapsed together. Sweat-slick and shaking.
He pulled her close. Wrapped around her. His breath warm on her neck.
"I have to tell you something," she whispered.
"What?"
"There's more."
He stilled.
"More?"
"The things I did. The things he made me do. I've never told anyone."
She felt him nod against her shoulder.
"Then tell me."
She turned in his arms. Faced him. The words were there, waiting.
"The first person I killed," she said, "I was twelve years old."
He didn't flinch.
"I didn't cry. I didn't throw up. I just... watched him die. And then I went inside and ate dinner."
The rain kept falling outside. The city kept humming. The world kept spinning.
And Nikolai held her. And didn't let go.
"I know what it is to be made into a weapon," he said. "To be forged in fire and blood and told it was love."
She looked at him. Really looked.
"You do."
"I do."
He kissed her forehead. Gentle. Almost tender.
"We're going to burn it all down," he said. "Everything they made us. Everything we were. We're going to build something else."
"With what?"
"With each other."
She closed her eyes. Breathed him in. The gunpowder. The sweat. The something darker underneath.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay."
They lay there as the rain fell. As the city woke. As the world kept turning, indifferent to the two broken people in a glass tower, holding onto each other like they were the only thing keeping the planet from spinning off its axis.
She didn't dream.
She didn't need to.
For the first time in her life, Raven was awake.
---
He kept his word.
Over the next three weeks, he taught her.
Not just shooting. Not just fighting. But everything. The way he moved through the world. The way he read people. The way he decided who to trust and who to bury.
He taught her about money—where it came from, where it went, how to move it without anyone noticing. He taught her about power—how to wield it, how to hide it, how to make people think they had it when they didn't.
He taught her about patience.
"You wanted to kill him," he said one night, sitting across from her at his kitchen table. "Your father."
"How did you—"
"I know things."
She looked at him. The blue eyes. The steady hands. The way he could make her feel safe and terrified at the same time.
"I still want to kill him," she said.
"I know."
"Are you going to stop me?"
"No."
She blinked.
"You're not?"
"I'm going to help you."
The words hung in the air. Heavy. Real.
"He's still out there," she said. "Still running the farm. Still beating kids into submission."
"Then we'll stop him."
"How?"
He smiled. Small. Dangerous.
"I have resources. You have reason. Together, we can make it happen."
She looked at him. The man who'd killed forty-seven men. The man who'd held her while she cried. The man who'd promised to burn it all down.
"Why?" she asked. "Why would you help me?"
"Because you're mine."
The words should have made her angry. Should have felt possessive. Controlling.
They didn't.
They felt like a promise.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay."
He reached across the table. Took her hand.
"Where do we start?" she asked.
"First," he said, "we find out where he is. Then we plan. Then we execute."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
She squeezed his hand.
"Just like that."
The rain had stopped. The city was quiet. And somewhere in the Ozarks, a monster was living his life, unaware that his daughter was coming home.
Raven smiled.
It was time to burn it down.