Most girls get a party for their nineteenth birthday. Some get a car. The lucky ones get a kiss.
I got a loaded Beretta 9mm and a death threat.
"Reload," the voice commanded from the shadows.
It was a voice that had haunted my dreams since I was a child—baritone, rough like gravel, and cold as the grave. Cassian Vance. The man who fed me, clothed me, and kept me locked in this gilded cage for fifteen years.
My hands trembled as I fumbled with the magazine. The smell of gunpowder and gun oil was thick in the air, choking out the faint scent of the expensive perfume he'd bought me last week. The basement firing range was freezing, the concrete seeping the chill through the thin soles of my ballet flats, but sweat trickled down my spine.
"I said reload, Elena. You're dead standing there."
"I'm trying," I snapped, the frustration bubbling up in my throat. I jammed the clip into the pistol, hearing the satisfying click, and racked the slide back.
I raised the gun, aiming at the paper target hanging ten yards away. The silhouette of a man. Faceless. Nameless. Just like the enemies Cassian told me were waiting outside the estate walls.
I took a breath, trying to steady the sights, but my arms ached. I had been down here for three hours. No cake. No candles. just the relentless bang, bang, bang of bullets shredding paper.
A hand settled on my hip.
I froze.
The touch was heavy, possessive, and scorching hot through the silk of my blouse. Cassian stepped up behind me, his chest brushing against my back. He was so close I could feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart.
"Widen your stance," he murmured, his mouth hovering just inches from my ear. His breath ghosted over my neck, sending a shiver racing down my skin that had nothing to do with the cold. "You're off balance. If the recoil doesn't knock you down, an enemy will."
I moved my feet apart, but my heart was hammering so hard against my ribs I thought he must feel it. This was the closest he had touched me in years. usually, Cassian Vance treated me like a museum exhibit—something to be looked at, guarded, but never, ever touched.
"Focus, Elena." His hand slid from my hip to my arm, correcting my aim. His fingers were rough, calloused from years of violence, yet his grip was surprisingly gentle. "Don't look at the gun. Look at the kill zone."
"I don't want to kill anyone," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the humming of the ventilation fans.
"Then you will die."
The harshness of his tone made me flinch. He stepped back, the loss of his body heat leaving me instantly cold.
"The world outside these gates does not care that you are nineteen today," Cassian said, his voice returning to that professional, detached tone that I hated. "It does not care that you are pretty, or that you speak French, or that you know the difference between a salad fork and a dessert spoon. It only cares about one thing."
"What?" I asked, lowering the gun and turning to face him.
Cassian stood under the harsh halogen light, looking like a fallen angel in a three-piece charcoal suit. A jagged scar ran through his left eyebrow, interrupting the perfect symmetry of his face. His eyes, the color of burnt whiskey, locked onto mine.
"It cares that you are a Morell," he said softly. "And because of that name, wolves will come for you. I won't always be there to stand between you and them."
"I don't need you to be," I lied. "I can take care of myself."
He laughed, a dark, humorless sound. "You've never spent a night outside this mansion, little bird. You don't know what darkness looks like."
"I know you," I shot back.
His eyes narrowed. The air between us crackled, electric and dangerous. For a second, I saw something flicker behind his stoic mask—hunger? Regret? It was gone before I could name it.
"Turn around," he ordered. "Shoot the target. Headshot. If you miss, we stay down here all night."
I gritted my teeth, turning back to the paper man. Focus.
I channeled every ounce of my anger into the grip of the gun. Anger at my parents for losing me. Anger at the world for hunting me. And mostly, anger at Cassian for making me love the monster who kept me prisoner.
I exhaled, squeezed the trigger, and let the darkness take over.
Bang.
The shot echoed, deafening in the small space.
I lowered the weapon and looked downrange. A perfect hole, right in the center of the silhouette's forehead.
I turned to Cassian, chest heaving, waiting for his praise. Waiting for a 'good job', or a smile, or maybe even a 'Happy Birthday.'
Cassian stared at the target, his jaw tight. He checked his watch—a platinum Rolex that cost more than most people's houses.
"Adequate," he grunted, turning toward the steel door. "Clean the weapon and pack your bags, Elena."
My stomach dropped. "Pack? Are we going somewhere?"
He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He didn't look back at me.
"We aren't going anywhere," he said, his voice void of emotion. "You are leaving. Tonight."
"What?" I stepped forward, panic rising in my throat. "Leaving? To go where?"
"Away from me." He opened the door, the darkness of the hallway swallowing him. "I've fulfilled my obligation. You're nineteen. You're trained. You're free."
"Cassian, wait!" I dropped the gun on the bench and ran toward him, but the heavy steel door slammed shut in my face.
The lock clicked.
I stood there in the silence, the smell of gunpowder stinging my eyes. He wasn't setting me free. He was throwing me to the wolves