DEADLY DECEPTION

CHAPTER 32

(Avery's POV)

The fluorescent lights in the washroom flickered as I leaned against the sink, my toothbrush hanging from my mouth like a cigarette. My eyelids drooped, my body still half-asleep, and my soul downright resentful.

Rick. That arrogant, heartless bastard had yanked me out of bed before the sun had the decency to rise, all for another round of self-defence training.

I groaned under my breath, scowling at my reflection. My hair was a tangled mess, my face still puffy with sleep, and yet here I was, forced to function at an ungodly hour. I could still hear his cold, commanding voice from earlier—"Up. You've got five minutes."—before he walked out like he owned my damn time.

I hated him.

I hated him even more for the way my mind wandered back to yesterday's training.

The gun had felt heavier than I expected, solid and unyielding in my grasp. Cold. Lifeless. Dangerous. My fingers had curled around it awkwardly at first, my grip unsteady, my palms damp with nerves. The weight alone had sent a ripple of unease through me, like I was holding something that didn't belong in my hands.

Rick had noticed. Of course he had.

He had stood too close. So damn close I could feel the heat radiating off his body, the subtle brush of his breath against my cheek as he adjusted my stance every single time.

His voice had been low, almost lazy, but his hands? His hands had been anything but.

The way one of his hands had found my waist and the other my wrist, his fingers skimming over my skin as he adjusted my stance—slow, deliberate, as if daring me to react. My pulse stuttered. My breath hitched for a fraction of a second, but I refused to let him have the satisfaction of seeing it.

And then, before I could prepare myself, I pulled the trigger.

The explosion rattled through my bones.

The recoil slammed against my palms, the force jolting my arms back, and for a split second, my ears rang so loud that the world blurred. The scent of burnt gunpowder filled my lungs—sharp, metallic, almost suffocating. My heart was racing, my breath caught somewhere between exhilaration and unease.

And Rick?

Rick had smirked.

The bastard had fucking smirked. Every time I flinched, every time I tensed at the sharp bang, a cold amusement had flickered in his eyes. Not mockery—something worse. Like he enjoyed watching me get rattled. Like he found my struggle fun.

"Again." His voice had been quiet, expectant, leaving no room for argument.

No praise—just the relentless push to keep going.

I had wanted to shove the gun into his smirking face. Instead, I had fired again. And again. And with every shot, he had been right there—correcting, adjusting, teasing.

One time, he had leaned in so close, his lips had nearly brushed my ear. His fingers had trailed down waist and arm under the guise of adjusting my grip, and my entire body had gone rigid—too aware of the heat, the proximity, the way my skin prickled where he touched.

I had hated it.

I had hated the way my breath caught, the way my stomach flipped, the way I had enjoyed the closeness just a little too much.

I spat out my toothpaste with an irritated huff, gripping the edges of the sink as the memory faded.

This was exactly why I hated him.