Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"Mikhail tells me that you know how to shoot rifle. That you did competition in university."

I glance over just in time to see Markovsky duck under the canvas canopy and silently thread between a pair of glowing outdoor heaters. When he targets the chair beside mine, I tuck my phone into my jacket and offer him a polite smile. "That's right, but it's been a long time since I've had any practice."

"Still," he says, making a non-committal sound as he settles in and gazes out across the blanket of fresh, gleaming frost that coats the field in front of us. Eight hundred yards downrange, dark-haired Oleg and another one of Aronov's guards set out a neat row of human-shaped targets. "Is curious that one like you would have interest in such things."

Genuinely amused, my smile widens. "One like me, huh?"

Stealing a quick look, Markovsky chuckles and waves a random hand. "I did not intend offense."

As I take in the black and gray-clad man beside me, a whisper of unease curls in my gut. See, unlike Koshmarin's blatant aggression and animosity and Aronov's even darker obsessiveness, this guy's a blank slate. Confident, cool, logical, and with a background not unlike my own, Markovsky's the real threat out here.

Other than Masen, of course, but he's not here right now, and despite Whitlock's best efforts to locate him, that man might as well have fallen off the earth.

About the time I go to reply, one of Maria's starched kitchen minions – this one, a tiny, brown-eyed beauty who can't be more than twenty – stops by with a tray of steaming tea and dainty pastries, along with a single, oversized ceramic mug of the best black coffee in the Eastern hemisphere. Rosalie was right. A little bacon at breakfast goes a long way with that woman.

Wrapping my hands around my mug, I sigh at the warmth and settle deeper into the plush cushion at my back. "No offense taken," I say, flashing Markovsky another row of teeth when I catch him studying me over the delicate gold rim of his cup. "It's not exactly a common hobby, less so for women."

He hums to himself or me, I'm not sure, before taking a slow, purposeful sip of his tea. "Perhaps. My wife is more, how to say it… traditional in these matters."

Just outside, Koshmarin, decked out in full-on competition camo, barks out a laugh at something Feliks said and then walks over to pluck an olive-drab long-range rifle off the rack standing near the canopy. A single glance at the buttstock and receiver tells me it's an AWM, a superb weapon, especially when chambered for the .338 Lapua Magnum, which I'm sure this one is. The thing's brand spanking new, too.

I turn back to Markovsky. "Misha said your wife no longer travels. Is that right?"

He drains his cup and deposits it on the wrought iron table between us. "I have house near Moscow." His shoulders roll in a languid shrug, but those sharp, pale gray eyes constantly move, scanning both me and our surroundings. "Didima stays there with children. It is… safer this way."

Ignoring that last bit, I play small talk as Koshmarin settles on the center mat in a loose prone position. Despite the man's decades of violence and non-stop bloodshed, that fucker has horrible form. Gangly and inelegant, he looks like a frog splayed out across that mat. As he loads his weapon, Markovsky lets out a low, disappointed tsk under his breath, and I have to school my expression when I ask, "So, how many kids do you have?"

One dark brow arches. Nonetheless, Markovsky's lips curve slightly, and the tiniest bit of warmth creeps into those otherwise stern features. "Three. Two boys and girl. Youngest has seven years."

Considering the lines and streaks of gray at his temples, I'll go out on a limb and say the wife's likely a good bit younger. Normally, I'd be surprised an older brother would be okay with that kind of thing, but knowing Aronov, he's probably the one who offered her up, just to secure the alliance.

I pick up the tell-tale click-clack of the bolt locking into place. Within seconds, an ear-splitting crack! shatters the silence, immediately followed by Koshmarin's loud, pissed-off, "Suka blyad'!" Another shot rings out as fast as he can re-load, and then two more until he finally manages to hit the body of the target.

Beside me, Markovsky's eyes dance in amusement. Quieter, almost conspiratorially, he says to me, "That one is too volatile for this sport, I think. Lacks patience and discipline."

I almost laugh because he's not wrong. While Koshmarin's certainly a killer, he's all motion and menace. He doesn't have the innate stillness or restraint needed for this kind of thing.

We watch Koshmarin fire off another few pitiable rounds. He's mediocre at best. As his last shot grazes the target's thigh, a harsh scowl mars his Hollywood face, and he lets out another volley of pissed-off curses. When he pushes off the mat, I take a drink of my coffee and peek over to Markovsky, only to find him again examining me like I'm some kind of puzzle. It's an unnerving sensation, and that unease in my gut swells and churns.

Spooky would fucking love this guy.

After a long, quiet moment, Markovsky finally makes another one of those humming sounds. "Mikhail says you are only daughter of the late Charles Swan. Is this correct?"

I blink like I'm surprised. "I am."

"You know," he muses as he crosses a leg over the opposite knee. "I met your father once."

Buying some time, I suck down another gulp of glorious caffeine and bitterness. "Really? When was that?"

He doesn't answer at first. Instead, dipping his chin, Markovsky points to Aronov's dark-haired guard as the tall twenty-something takes Koshmarin's vacated spot on the mat. "See Oleg there?"

I nod.

"Boy is excellent marksman. Trained as sniper before discharge from military." Something akin to pride flashes across Markovsky's features, and his voice drips with approval. "Watch the difference in form and result."

Sure enough, that baby-faced guard knows what he's doing. Unlike Koshmarin, Oleg the Sniper takes his time as he lies down, lining up with his target and splaying his body for maximum stability and contact with the ground. Whispering to himself, he loads his weapon almost as if a ritual, and as his breathing slows, he checks the wind and dials in his optics with the careful precision of a pro. He exhales a deep, protracted lung full of air, flattening his chest to the mat, and pauses for a quiet, drawn-out second where even the air seems to freeze.

Another crack! reverberates across the open field. Peering through my rangefinder, I spy a single, neat hole dead-center in the target's chest and let out a low whistle.

Shit, he is good.

I need to remember that the next time I'm out for a late-night stroll.

"Otlichno, Oleshik!" Chuckling again, Markovsky claps before angling back to me. "It has been a long time. Some years ago, I was commander of particular group within Sukhoputnyye voyska… our Army. It was close to time when your father started his company."

I'm pretty sure I know what's coming next.

"Black Swan had just come out with .50 anti-material LRSS, a truly beautiful weapons system. Revolutionary, perhaps, more so than this one..." The man's attention flits to the olive drab AWM propped up on its bipod on the mat. "Perfectly balanced, portable, and extremely accurate at distances very, very few producers can replicate."

Yeah, no shit. It's why I have one. Okay, fine, some.

"I made request to purchase several crates for… training purposes."

My lips twitch. "What did he say?"

"Your father declined my offer, of course." Markovsky laughs, this time loud enough that even the men milling around outside the canopy still and stare. "It was very disappointing."

I bet it was.

Good job, Dad.

I give him an apologetic smile, but Markovsky just waves me off with another laugh and then motions over to Maria's minion for another cup of tea. Out on the field, Koshmarin spits off to the side and sends me a dark, angry glare, violent enough to peel paint, and it dawns on me that there may be more to Markovsky's current seating arrangements than I realized.

Five minutes later, as Koshmarin sprawls out for another round of hit-and-likely-miss, frozen grass crunches behind us. Tracking the sound, I look left, and a few beats later, Aronov dips his head under the canopy. Like always, he pins me instantly and without wasting a breath, strides over with Dmitri right on his heels. A matte black, heavy denier rifle case hangs off the bodyguard's shoulder.

"Ah, there you are," I say, cooing my would-be lover's typical greeting with a teasing grin. I shove out of my chair just in time to slide an arm around his waist.

"Milaya." Aronov's cheeks crease as he pulls me tightly against him. Those wandering hands of his immediately target my waist and hip, and as his lips touch my temple, his palm slips beneath the top of my waistband to find bare skin. He eyes Koshmarin over the top of my head, claiming me as his, just like Masen said he would. "I had hoped you would join me in my apartments for breakfast this morning."

I pretend I don't notice the abrupt friction in the air. Instead, I just wind my fingers into the thin, high-tech thermal quilting of Aronov's coat. With dark jeans and charcoal cashmere on top of his usual white oxford, it's the most casual I've ever seen this man. "I went for my morning run and just grabbed something from the kitchen afterward."

"I see."

Cinching my arm tighter, I lift on my toes and slowly run my nose along his jaw to whisper in his ear. "No cages, remember? I'm neither a pet nor a trophy."

Aronov's grip on my hip spasms, and his irises darken. Yet as he scans down the figure-skimming lines of my running jacket to the skintight black fabric of my leggings, something else creeps into his expression, and he finally replies with a soft, growly, "So very, very stubborn." He kisses my temple again and then my mouth before muttering under his breath. "Inogda ya ne znayu, khochu li ya poklonyat'sya tebe ili slomat' tebya."

Worship me… break me, let me see… I'll take Door #3.

Skin crawling, I pull back just enough to look him in the eye. "Are you going to tell me what that means?"

A chuff of a laugh tumbles out, and Aronov gives me a playful wink. "Of course not. Where is the fun in that?" When I shoot him a mock glare, his whole face warms, and he signals Dmitri over my shoulder. The guard obeys at once, and with quick, efficient movements, he lays the rifle case on the nearby table. "But… I do have a surprise that I think you will like."

Releasing me, Aronov throws another grin over to Markovsky, where he sits mutely observing our exchange, and adds, "And, Sasha, you may not have this one, however much you might plead."

Markovsky rolls his eyes. "Mudila."

I recognize the design the second I spot the flare of the muzzle brake, and by the time the chassis comes into view, the smile on my face is a real one. While some part of me is fucking pissed that Aronov's somehow managed to acquire one of BSA's rarest rifles – one that only a handful of special ops teams carry – when I pull it out of the case, run my palm over the smooth, carbon fiber stock, and trace the etched lines of the Black Swan stamp, it feels a little like home.

"What do you think?"

I cock a brow, even as I slide the bolt to check the breech. "Should I ask how you acquired this?"

Beside me, Markovsky drums his knuckles against his armrest and snorts. "Yes, Misha, please, do tell us."

"Unimportant." Aronov's shoulders shake, and his wrist flies in a dismissive gesture. "But my question remains."

"What do I think?" I ask, drawing it out. Well aware that I'm being watched, I position the rifle into a high vertical carry instead of my usual, natural low ready. That shit would give me away in a heartbeat, especially with Markovsky and Oleg over there. I swap hands and snake the other inside Aronov's jacket, skimming down the soft cashmere covering his rib cage. "I think you are a clever, thoughtful man, and this is… perfect."

Because it is.

I'll take my favorite rifle over diamonds any day of the week.

The fact that he arranged this whole morning, obviously remembering the details of my hobby from our first conversation at the opera, is almost flattering.

Were he not a murderous psycho.

After another few minutes, at Aronov's slick, cajoling behest, I slip by a silent, still fuming Koshmarin to take my spot on the mat. Like Oleg, I'm in no hurry, and I take my time positioning and setting up my rifle. As I load a five-round magazine and methodically chamber the first, in my periphery, I catch Markovsky exiting the canopy to stand between Aronov and Koshmarin.

Awesome, I get an audience.

I fumble just enough to make it look like it's been a while, and as I go to sight the target through my optics, I deliberately cross my ankles and kick my left elbow out a little too far. It's a fucking awkward stance, like some quirky bullshit you might see from an enthusiast or a semi-pro circuit competitor. My old instructors would beat my ass for this shit. Not to mention Rosalie. She would die laughing and never, ever let me live this down.

Good thing she's back in the castle.

Hopefully, coordinating Cullen's eventual evac with Whitlock.

Under the guise of a spa and sauna day, of course.

I suck in a deep, calming breath, and my heartbeat automatically slows to a dull thump against my sternum. The chill from the ground seeps through the mat, but the temperature barely even registers. I lower my eye to the top-tier, military-grade Zeiss scope mounted on the rail, and as my forefinger curls around the trigger, everything stills.

The men behind me go silent. The birds stop singing. Even the wind ceases to blow.

My shot ruptures the air.

And before my ears stop ringing, that damned internal radar of mine goes off for the first time in four days. Right on cue, that all-too-familiar energy hits my senses, sending gooseflesh down the back of my neck, and I swear the weight of Masen's stare feels like a hot caress.

Thank God.

Because it's about time.

I force myself not to react to Masen's sudden appearance. Instead, I stay down, studying the neat hole I intentionally placed in the target's bicep through my scope, and call over my shoulder. "See? I told you it's been a while."

"No, is very good," Markovsky murmurs, and there's not a hint of sarcasm in his response. "With practice, I am certain you are excellent in this sport."

Still eying my target, I grin. "Okay, now you're just being nice."

Grass crunches softly somewhere off to Aronov's left, followed by an equally quiet, calm, sure voice that I'd recognize anywhere. "Uncross your legs and kick your left out," Masen says. That sick, sinking sensation in my gut abruptly vanishes, leaving a completely different kind of churn in its place. "And pull your elbow in a couple of inches."

"Edward." Behind me, I pick up the distinct slap of a palm on Masen's shoulder. "Ya dumal, ty vernesh'sya vchera."

Masen huffs. "V Prage byli zaderzhki." Fabric rustles, and I don't have to turn around to know he's shrugging. "Ya ob"yasnyu pozzhe."

No shit, there were delays.

Aronov grunts. It's an angry, impatient sound. "Ladno, no ya khochu obnovleniye ochen' skoro."

"Fine," Masen tells him, and undisguised irritation bleeds into his tone. "Later today. I'm a little fucking tired right now."

Hands shoved deep in his pockets, Masen slowly meanders around to my side, gazing down at me like he's studying my form. When we finally make eye contact, something warm and heavy surges through my veins, and without permission, my heart flutters inside my chest.

That is until I see utter coldness staring back at me.

After a too-long second of silence, one brow climbs his forehead. Masen's features morph into a mask I don't recognize at all. It's ice-cold, and it's furious, but not like that morning in Aronov's office. No, this is something else – something deeper and angrier. The hollows of his eyes look almost black, and by his side, his fists ball and clench. When I cock my head in question, that hard, uncompromising jaw of his ticks. "Go ahead, Bella," he says through his teeth, softly enough that I doubt anyone else can hear. "Shoot."

We stare at each other for another long second. Vaguely, I catalogue Aronov and Markovsky obliviously yammering in the background, but the sudden rush of blood in my ears drowns all that out. Almost in slow motion, I correct my position, lower my head to my scope, chamber the round, and then count to ten, needing to calm my pounding heart into something akin to normalcy as I try to figure out what the fuck is going on.

This time, I hit the target right in the center, maybe an inch away from Oleg's earlier shot.

And then I take out the throat.

And an eye.

And then, just because I can and because I'm getting sick and fucking tired of dissembling, I put a round between the target's legs, right where his balls would hang.

I pop up off the mat and spin around, sporting a wide, beaming grin. "Well, that's much better, don't you think?"

Jesus Christ, it is, too.

There's a beat of dead silence, and then Aronov throws his head back, belting out a loud, exultant laugh.

"Look at you," he purrs, grabbing for me the second I hand off my rifle to Oleg. "My darling, you are breathtaking." He squeezes me, pulling me flush against him, and I swear, I feel that man get hard right here and now. His lips skim along my throat to my ear, where he growls out a soft, whispered, "I am finished waiting… Mine, Bella. You are mine."

When I reply, I don't look at Aronov.

No, I stare into emerald fire. "Fine, I'm yours."

.

.

.

Notes:

There's no Russian equivalent to Didyme (that I'm aware of!), so Didima is me just adjusting the original Greek name to make it sound a little more fitting.

Russian (transliterated):

Suka blyad': translated literally, it means 'bitch slut', but it's a common expression used to express a wide range of emotions, mostly negative. Roughly, it means shit! damn! fuck!

Otlichno, Oleshik: Excellent/great, Oleg (Oleshik is a nickname of Oleg used by family, friends, etc)

Sukhoputnyye voyska: Literally 'Ground forces', which refers to the Russian Army. You might remember that Markovsky was in Spetnaz, which is a broad term for Russia's elite special forces units, before joining the FSB

Milaya: Recall, this is a common term of endearment, like dorogaya. It roughly means sweetheart, darling, etc

Inogda ya ne znayu, khochu li ya poklonyat'sya tebe ili slomat' tebya: Sometimes I don't know if I want to worship you or break you

Mudila: this is a variant of mudak, an insult which translates to asshole, moron, prick, dick, etc

Ya dumal, ty vernesh'sya vchera: I thought you'd be back yesterday

V Prage byli zaderzhki. Ya ob"yasnyu pozzhe: There were delays in Prague. I will explain later

Ladno, no ya khochu obnovleniye ochen' skoro: Fine, but I want an update very soon

Glossary:

AWM: refers to the British Accuracy International Arctic Warfare Magnum (AWM) rifle. It's a top-end, long-range, bolt-action rifle used by military and special forces snipers in several countries. It has an effective range of up to 1700 m when chambered for the .338 Lapua Magnum. The military-grade variants can run around +/- $40k depending on optics, configuration, etc

Bolt-action: this is a manual firearm action where you directly manipulate the bolt via a bolt handle. Bolt-action rifles can be repeating (meaning, you can fire more than one shot before reloading) or single-shot breech loaders. In the military, bolt-action firearms have been mostly replaced by semi-automatic and selective-fire firearms, but remain prevalent as sniper rifles due to the inherent superior accuracy and precision, as well as ruggedness and reliability compared to autoloading designs

Breech: this is just the rear of the barrel, where ammunition is loaded for almost all modern firearms (vs a muzzleloader, where ammo is loaded via the muzzle, aka front)

LRSS: Long-range sniper system. I've made up the Black Swan Armaments (BSA) .50 LRSS rifle, but in my head, it's loosely modeled on the Cheytac Intervention system with includes a bolt-action rifle chambered for .408 Cheytac ammo and the Cheytac advanced ballistics computer which can connect the rifle to the rangefinder binoculars and meteorological package. With the larger caliber .408 ammo, the Cheytac Intervention system is an anti-material weapon. It's a very accurate weapon and has a super-long effective range of around 2700 yards

Muzzle brake: aka recoil compensator. This is a device attached to the end of a rifle barrel that redirects propellant gases when the weapon is fired. This reduces recoil and helps prevent muzzle rise. For most designs, they can be removed and replaced with a suppressor if preferred

Zeiss: manufacturer of high-end lens and optical equipment, including things like camera lenses, telescope lenses, rifle scopes, etc