making Bella's stomach twist.
She wasn't prepared for what she saw next.
A massive underground armory stretched before her, stocked with weapons she had only seen in movies. Racks of rifles, shelves of ammunition, crates of explosives—all meticulously organized. Men moved through the space, some cleaning their guns, others speaking in hushed tones. These weren't ordinary criminals. They were soldiers—killers.
Vladimir stopped near a table, finally breaking the silence. "You're not here to play house, Bella. If you're going to be a part of my world, you'll learn how to survive in it."
She turned to him, disbelief tightening her chest. "Survive?" she echoed. "You mean you want me to become like them?"
He didn't flinch at the accusation. "I want you to understand what happens to those who are weak."
A man approached them, tall and built like a tank. He carried a sleek black pistol and set it on the table in front of Bella.
Vladimir gestured to it. "Pick it up."
Bella hesitated, staring at the gun as if it might bite her. "I—"
"Pick it up," he repeated, his tone sharper.
She swallowed hard and reached for it. The metal was cold against her skin, heavier than she expected. It wasn't just an object. It was a symbol of everything Vladimir was—a force that took what it wanted without question.
"Good," he said, his crimson eyes studying her reaction. "Now pull the trigger."
Bella's breath caught. She looked around the room, noticing for the first time the shooting range behind them. A target stood at the far end, faceless and blank.
Her fingers trembled as she aimed, her heart pounding against her ribs.
"I don't—"
A rough hand closed over hers, steadying her grip. Vladimir's touch was impersonal, firm—nothing gentle about it. "No hesitation," he murmured against her ear. "Hesitation gets you killed."
She sucked in a sharp breath.
Bang!
The shot echoed through the armory, the recoil jarring her arm. The bullet hit the outer ring of the target, far from center.
Vladimir didn't react. "Again."
Bella's fingers clenched around the gun, anger bubbling beneath her fear. She wasn't sure if she was mad at him or at herself—for being here, for being powerless, for playing into his twisted game.
She fired again.
And again.
Each shot chipped away at something inside her.
When she finally lowered the gun, her arms ached, her breath shaky.
Vladimir studied her, his expression unreadable. Then, he turned away as if she were nothing more than another task completed. "You'll train every day," he said. "Until you're useful."
The finality of his words sent a chill through her.
She wasn't here to be his bride.
She wasn't even here to be a prisoner.
She was here to become something else entirely.
A piece of his empire.
A weapon.