Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
He thinks he’s saved us.
I’m not close to reaching the same conclusion.
Azra folds her arms over her chest before giving Claude her best interrogative stare. “That’s a beekeeper’s mask?”
“Uh-huh,” Claude replies, nodding too fast. “It scares the bees as much as it subdues them.”
Azra cocks a stern brow, and Claude shits his pants before he bails, leaving me to clean up my own mess.
“Pleasure meeting you, but I’ve gotta go. Orchard emergency. Bye!”
He dives into the UTV and skids down a row between lemon trees.
I stalk his departure, torn between amusement and wanting to kill him. Usually, I respond to a situation like this with violence, but Claude is family. And two—I love wrangling a moody, cranky Azra.
I’m obsessed with every single one of her moods. So much so, I’m dying to experience her first period as her husband. Will she tear my nuts off with her hands or her teeth?
Fingers crossed she does both.
Azra slowly turns to me, eyes narrowed.
Still fixated on the thought of wrangling a tiger into submission, I smirk and wink. It doesn’t have the effect it usually does. Perhaps her period is closer than believed?
Huffing, she storms toward the gun range as if she knows exactly where it is.
She doesn’t, but I let her pretend.
I fall into step behind her, hands in my pockets, with a grin that refuses to leave my face.
The gun range is located at the far end of the orchard, hidden behind a row of dense lemon trees. The air smells of citrus and gun oil—a combination I’ve always found comforting.
At the entrance, Azra glances around like she’s entering a forbidden world. Based on the stories I’ve heard, she grew up believing that only men could enter places like this.
Curling my hand around hers, I ask, “Ready?”
Her nod is confident, but her fingers twitch.
She’s nervous, which is strange for her.
After forcing her to don the necessary safety gear, I hand her a loaded pistol. “First rule: Always assume it’s loaded. Second: Never point it at anything you don’t intend to shoot.”
Wetting her lips, she nods.
“Third: Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”
Again, she nods.
“Fourth: Stance is just as important as the caliber of your weapon.”
I step behind her and adjust her shoulders, tuck in her elbows, and fix her grip. She’s stiff at first, but she relaxes the more I guide her.
I twist her to face the person-shaped shooting target at the end of the range, then step back. “Line up your shot, breathe out slowly, then squeeze the trigger.”
The gun trembles in her hand as she lifts it.
She fires.
The bullet hits the dirt three feet in front of her.
Cranking her neck back, she winces. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Moving closer, I show her how to perfect her stance.
The next few minutes play out as good, if not better, as how I imagined when purchasing the gun.
“Try again.”
She fires again and misses.
“I’m terrible at this.”
“No, you’re not. You’re learning.”
She bites her lip, and that’s when I see it. The glint in her eyes and the way she holds the gun a little too comfortably announce that I’m being played.
“Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s the person teaching. If you can’t do, you teach, right?”
Her mouth twitches as she perfects her stance before she empties almost the entire magazine into the paper target.
Every single shot hits its mark.
Every. Single. One.
Except she didn’t aim for the man’s chest. She took out his dick, nuts, and half his fucking bowels.
With a sweet smile and one bullet in the chamber, Azra slowly pivots to face me.
She’s so fucking perfect that there’s no chance she’ll miss her target when she aims her gun at my crotch and her finger hugs the trigger.
I’m doomed, and I’ve never been fucking happier.
Chapter 45
Azra
Even with the safety on, I shouldn’t be pointing a gun at my husband. The magazine holds only one bullet, and I’ve angled the barrel slightly away from his crotch, but I still know this is wrong.
My intention is not to hurt Matteo. I just want to scare him a little.
Well, that’s the stupid, petty lie I’m telling myself.
Truth is, I want him to feel a fraction of the hurt I felt when Claude said he’d never seen him play in the orchard during the day.
A week ago, I was a virgin, but even I know what “play” stands for.
He did that in the orchard.
With whom? I don’t know.
With how many? I don’t want to know.
My stomach twists at the thought of him being with anyone else. It’s senseless, but Matteo has had my head in such a whirlwind the past week that I completely forgot a world exists outside our bubble.
I hate this feeling. This ugly, burning, acidic jealousy that crawls up my throat and makes me want to scream. I can’t control it, and it makes me so irrational I want to hurt the one person I’m falling for.