Ryn archery

At lunch, Naomi sat with Patrick so Ryn cut out early, using her afternoon free time to brush up on archery. She loosed shaft after shaft into distant hay bales, ignoring their awful instructor. Every satisfying thump of arrow to target unspooled her violent urges, perhaps since the target’s size and shape wasn’t a total mismatch for Patrick’s face.
“Who are you imagining in that bullseye?” Denise leaned against a nearby post. “Patrick?”
Her concentration wavered and her arrow planted an inch too wide. Out of anger, she thumped three more into the red dot, one-two-three, so fast the instructor said an oath in front of campers. How does Denise always know my thoughts? “Are you an empath?” she demanded.


Chapter 19, Page 298