Chapter 11 – Trigger Discipline
Camila's pov.....
Her fingers trembled only slightly as she folded the note back into its envelope.
She's still alive.
Three words that cracked open something buried deep inside her chest. For a brief moment, the walls she'd built to survive crumbled. Isabella was safe. Still in the house. Possibly with Rosa.
They hadn't taken her.
Camila exhaled, her heart lurching with something dangerously close to hope. She leaned against the cold wall of her room, eyes burning—not with tears, but with the weight of what next.
She wasn't free. Her sister might be alive, but that meant nothing if Camila couldn't reach her.
She had to get stronger. Smarter.
And she had to break Lucien.
Not with seduction. Not with softness. She knew now—he didn't bend for delicate things. He admired force. Precision. Power.
So she would show him hers.
---
She found him in the underground range beneath the warehouse—shirtless, his back slick with sweat, a pistol gripped in one gloved hand. Targets hung torn in the distance. Bullet holes surrounded the bullseyes like warnings.
Camila didn't knock. She stepped right in.
"I want you to teach me."
Lucien didn't turn around.
"Teach you what?"
She walked closer, chin high. "How to shoot."
Now he turned.
His eyes flicked over her—black jeans, tank top, steady stance. "You're not ready."
"I didn't ask if I was. I said teach me."
His gaze narrowed. "Guns aren't toys, Camila."
"I'm not a child."
"No," he murmured, "you're not. But knowing how to pull a trigger doesn't mean knowing when to."
A siren blared. Sharp. Sudden.
Lucien's hand went to his holster. A guard's voice cracked through the intercom.
"Escape. South corridor. Armed."
Camila didn't wait for permission.
She moved.
Out into the hall, where two guards scrambled and another shouted useless orders. A blur of a man—shirtless, bloodied, dragging a chain from one cuff—sprinted through the warehouse's lower level.
A gun clattered to the ground. The guards fumbled to aim.
Camila didn't hesitate.
She dropped to one knee, grabbed the shotgun lying by a crate, cocked it smoothly like she'd done it a thousand times. Her breath slowed.
She aimed.
And fired.
The man dropped mid-sprint—dead before he hit the ground.
Silence rang louder than the gunshot.
Lucien stepped into view, flanked by his stunned men.
Camila rose slowly. Calm. Steady.
She set the shotgun down gently, turned to Lucien, and met his eyes head-on.
"Still think I'm not ready?"
A beat passed.
His jaw ticked.
Lucien stepped closer, eyes on the smoke rising from the barrel.
"Next time, aim for the heart."
Then he added, almost like a promise
"I'll teach you... but only if you're ready to bleed for it."
The next day...
The wind carried the smell of gunpowder.
Camila stood at the edge of the training field, boots sinking slightly into the damp dirt, eyes locked on the man before her. Lucien wore all black, as usual. Sleeves rolled up. The cold metal of his watch glinted under the sun.
"This one's a Glock," he said, tossing the weapon toward her.
She caught it easily.
"I know," she replied.
His brow ticked, a flicker of amusement in his otherwise unreadable face. "Then show me."
Camila stepped forward, posture straight, arms raised. The stance came naturally, like her body had been waiting for this moment. She inhaled, aimed, fired.
The bullet tore clean through the paper target's center.
Lucien said nothing for a beat. Then, finally—"Not bad."
She looked over her shoulder, expression cool. "Not bad?"
He strode closer, grabbed a heavier pistol from the table, and handed it to her. "Let's see how you handle recoil."
They moved through six more weapons.
By the time they reached the final one—a sleek silver revolver—Camila's arms ached, but she didn't let it show. Sweat glistened at her temple. Lucien watched her with that frustrating intensity, as if studying the way she breathed.
She fired the revolver. Bullseye.
A slow exhale escaped his lips.
Then: "You're a natural."
The praise hit differently coming from him. No sarcasm. No mockery. Just raw, unfiltered approval.
Camila smiled. Not the forced, polite curve of lips she gave others—but something real. Brief. Uncontrolled.
Lucien noticed.
"You smiled," he said.
She holstered the weapon. "Don't get used to it."
But he was already walking toward her, closing the space between them like a shadow swallowing light. His voice dropped an octave. "I like when you surprise me."
"You don't scare me, Lucien," she said, chin tilted up.
"Good. Fear makes people stupid."
He stepped closer.
Close enough to smell the faint tobacco clinging to his shirt. Close enough that her pulse quickened against her will.
His hand lifted slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. She didn't flinch, but her breath hitched. He felt it—he always did.
Then his fingers trailed lower, slow across her jaw, down her neck.
"You're different," he murmured.
"I know," she said.
His hand slid to her hip, possessive.
She didn't move.
Not yet.
His lips were nearly on hers when—
She twisted out of his grip, fast and smooth. Put two steps of distance between them. Her smirk was sharp enough to cut.
"Nice try," she said. "But I don't break that easily."
Lucien arched a brow.
"I'm not one of your pets, Lucien," she whispered, voice low and lethal. "And I never will be."
She turned and walked off the field with that same smug, confident stride that always made his jaw tighten.
Lucien stood there for a long moment.
Watching.
Burning.
And smiling faintly.
---