Tangled Threads

22

Sometime during the night, Finn had gone back to the train yard and retrieved my car from the discreet location where I’d parked it. So I was able to follow Owen back to his house in my own set of wheels.

An hour after our talk in the kitchen, I was safely ensconced in Owen’s massive bed, with several pillows behind my back and several more blankets piled on top of me, even though I was no longer cold. Owen had also started a fire in the stone fireplace in the corner of the bedroom, and the flames danced merrily, bathing the room in a pleasant, cheery glow. It was late afternoon now, and outside, the long winter shadows had already started to stretch over the landscape, blackening everything they touched. But in here, everything was bright and warm and cozy.

After seeing how I was doing, Eva Grayson had gone out to do some last-minute Christmas shopping with her best friend, Violet Fox. So Owen and I were alone in the mansion. After starting the fire, Owen had told me to sit tight and then disappeared into some other part of the house, saying that he had a surprise for me. As a general rule I didn’t like surprises. Not many assassins did. But I was willing to make an exception just this once.

A few minutes later, Owen stepped back into the bedroom, carrying a large wrapped box that was obviously a Christmas present. Fat, blue snowmen covered the paper, grinning up at me like fools, while a wide red ribbon topped off the whole thing.

Owen sat down on the bed next to me and put the box in my lap. “Merry Christmas, Gin.”

“Oh.” There I went again, being a conversational genius.

I stared at the box, then looked up at Owen. “But I don’t have your present yet. At least, not with me.”

I winced at the lousy lie. The truth was that so much had been going on these last few days that I hadn’t given any more thought to what I might get Owen. He was a millionaire in his own right with a slew of successful businesses, so it wasn’t like he really needed anything. Still, I wanted to get him something — something meaningful, special. But what could it be? Somehow, I didn’t think that a light-up Christmas sweater or a cheesy holiday tie would cut it.

“That’s all right,” Owen rumbled. “I thought I would give these to you early. You might find a use for them before Christmas.”

Now I was curious, eagerly so. Fletcher Lane might not have been my blood father, but the old man had passed his rampant sense of curiosity on to me. In fact, it was the one trait that always seemed to get the best of me, no matter how hard I tried to squash it.

Still, I hesitated. “Are you sure you want me to open it? Right now?”

He nodded.

“Okay.”

I plucked the fat bow off the box and placed it on top of Owen’s head. He playfully grumbled at me, but left the red ribbon where it was, a streamer trailing down each side of his chiseled face. Then I ripped into the snowman-covered wrapping paper, shredding it with my nails. The box was solid and much heavier than I’d thought it would be, and a moment later I realized why. It was actually a silverstone case — the slick, fancy kind that a banker like Finn might use to carry around a large sum of cash.

“Go on,” Owen urged. “See what’s inside.”

I popped the clasps on either side of the case and opened it up. Inside lay a tray of thick black foam — and five silverstone knives. The metal winked at me in the firelight.

“They’re beautiful,” I said in a low voice.

And they were. The knives were similar in design to the ones that I always carried, but I could tell that these were exquisitely made, even more so than my usual weapons. I plucked one out of the foam, turning it this way and that, getting a feel for the weapon.

Light but strong, thin but sharp, beautiful but deadly. The knife felt like a natural extension of my hand even more than my old, familiar weapons did. It was as though Owen had somehow measured my hand from every conceivable angle and then designed a blade just for me.

The metal winked at me again, and I realized that a symbol had been stamped into the hilt. I peered more closely. I recognized it immediately, of course.

A small circle surrounded by eight thin rays. A spider rune.

My rune. My knives.

“Do you like them?” Owen asked, his violet eyes light and hopeful in his face.

For a moment I couldn’t answer him. I was just so touched and slightly stunned by the thoughtfulness of his gift and all the work that had so obviously gone into the knives. Even with Owen’s elemental talent for metal, it would have taken him hours, maybe even days, to make each one of the weapons. No one had ever given me something so personal, so perfect before. And the fact that it was Owen who was giving them to me … Once again, I let myself truly hope that things would be different with us, and that our relationship wouldn’t end in disaster like my last one.

“They’re perfect,” I whispered. “Absolutely perfect. But when did you have time to make them? We’ve only been … together a few weeks.”

Owen shrugged. “I started thinking about the design a while back when I realized just how much you liked knives.”

I stared at the silverstone weapons glinting in the black foam. “And you’re giving them to me now, giving them to me early, because of LaFleur, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

Once again, I stared into Owen’s eyes, searching for any sign, any hint, that he was somehow disgusted by my plan to kill LaFleur. That deep down, he simply abhorred who I was and the bloody violence I was so easily capable of dishing out without hesitation or regrets of any kind.

But there was nothing in his gaze but understanding. And I was beginning to think that was all there would ever be. That Owen would never show the disgust and disappointment my previous lover, Detective Donovan Caine, had. That Owen would never leave me as Donovan had because of my being the Spider. However crazy it was, Owen understood me — and he fully accepted what I was and the things I had to do to keep the people I loved safe.

“You know,” I said, my voice thick with emotion that I couldn’t quite hide. “You didn’t have to stay at Jo-Jo’s last night. And you didn’t have to listen to Finn and me talk about the best way to kill LaFleur this afternoon. If you’d left me there, I would have understood. If you don’t want to know anything about what I do when I go out late at night, I would understand that too.”

Owen gave me a faint, slightly sad smile. “Still comparing me to Donovan, eh, Gin?”

I shrugged. “I was an assassin for a long time, Owen. I might be retired, but part of me will always be the Spider. Always be ready, willing, and able to do what I have to do, no matter how violent or bloody it is or who I have to hurt in the process. These last few weeks with you have been great. All I’m saying is that I understand if the novelty’s worn off and you want to get off the carousel ride now before it kills you.”

“I admit that you being an assassin has certainly made things … interesting,” Owen said in an honest voice. “But I also think you’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met. Strong, caring, and fiercely loyal to the people that she loves. I’m no choirboy, Gin. And I don’t expect you to be one either. I’m a lot of things, but a hypocrite isn’t one of them.”

He stopped and drew in a breath. “As for the knives, I made them because I knew you would like them. I knew you would use them. And I made them because I wanted you to have the best damn weapons available when you do go after Elektra LaFleur, Mab Monroe, or whoever’s on your hit list at the moment. I want you to come back to me, Gin — in one piece. Always. That’s why I made the weapons for you. Because if I can’t be there, then at least they can. And they’re the best damn pieces I’ve ever made because I made them for you.”

I might have been sleeping with Owen for the past few weeks, but I hadn’t let him get close to me. Oh, I’d told him all about my past, about the night that Mab had murdered my family, about Fletcher taking me in off the streets and teaching me how to be the assassin the Spider, even about Bria being back in town and all the conflicted feelings I had toward my sister. But I hadn’t let him get close to me, hadn’t let him have any real piece of my heart.

Maybe it was time to change that.

I put the silverstone knife back in the case, closed the lid, and set it down on the floor beside the bed. Then I threw off the blankets, scooted over to Owen, wrapped my arms around his neck, and pressed my lips to his.

The things I was feeling weren’t subtle, weren’t safe and small and cautious, and neither was my reaction to Owen. My tongue plunged into his mouth, hot and demanding, even as I crawled up and straddled him, rocking back and forth, telling him exactly what I wanted, exactly what I needed — him. Now. Always.

After a second of hesitation, Owen growled low in his throat and responded in kind, his tongue dueling with mine for control. A minute later, we broke apart, already breathing heavily. But the kiss had done nothing to quench my desire for him. If anything, it had only made my need flare that much brighter, that much hotter. I already felt close to exploding. Or perhaps that was because of everything I was feeling — things I just couldn’t put into words. Not now, maybe not ever. But I could show him how I felt — again and again and again.

I moved in to kiss him again, but Owen held a finger up to my lips.

“Wait, wait, are you sure you feel up to it?” he murmured. “We don’t have to—”

I rocked forward again, slowly grinding against him. Then my hand dropped to his stomach and moved lower, stroking him through the thick fabric of his pants, showing him exactly how up to it I felt.

Owen reached for me, and our lips met again. We spent a long time just kissing, just exploring each other’s mouths, reveling in the other’s scent, taste, feel, touch. Finally he reached for me, ready to take things to the next level, but I slid off the bed. I wanted this to last, to be something special, if only for tonight. Because I knew it might be my last, if LaFleur had her way.

My eyes locked with Owen’s, gray on violet, both gleaming with heat, passion, need, desire. I stretched my arms up over my head. And then I started to move.

I did a slow, sinuous striptease for him, curving my body this way and that, shedding one piece of clothing at a time as I went along, letting the fabric float away to the floor. Owen sat back on the bed and enjoyed the show, although the desire burned that much brighter in his gaze, with every bit of myself I revealed to him.

Finally, when I stood naked before him, I held out my hand. He took it, and I pulled him off the bed and up to his feet. Owen started to gather me in his arms again, but I moved around him, still teasing. Sliding my hands this way and that across his chest. Touching him here, then there, lower, harder, softer, gentler, until the muscles in his neck bulged from the strain of standing still.

I moved behind him, running my fingers through his thick, black hair, before pressing a soft kiss to the side of his neck.

“Let me undress you,” I murmured in his ear.

Owen nodded and lifted his arms over his head. I made quick work of his sweater, socks, and pants, and soon, he stood there before me wearing only a pair of black silk boxers. They hung low on his lean hips, a dusky trail of hair dipping down below the waistband. I stepped closer to Owen, who watched me through hooded eyes. He knew the teasing game I was playing, and he was enjoying it just as much as I was.

I hooked one finger in the waistband of his boxers, then lightly snapped them back against his skin.

“Hey, now,” he growled. “Don’t damage anything you might want me to use in a few minutes.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll take extra good care of you tonight.”

I leaned forward and slowly slid his boxers down his legs. Owen stepped out of them and kicked the silk across the room. But I was already moving forward, putting my mouth on his thick length, sucking gently, then harder, my nails running every which way on and around him.

“Gin,” he rasped, his hips automatically pumping forward. Owen braced a hand on the nightstand to keep himself in check.

“Now, now,” I said in a soft voice. “Good things come to those who wait.”

I continued my teasing for several more minutes, bringing him to the edge again and again but not pushing him over it. Owen groaned with delight.

But finally, he had had enough of my teasing. He grabbed my arms, pulled me to my feet, and picked me up. I locked my legs around his waist. He maneuvered me up against the closet wall and gave me a wicked, wolfish smile, his violet eyes as bright and beautiful as I had ever seen them.

“My turn,” he rasped.

His lips dropped to my neck, kissing me there, as one of his hands went down between my legs. I opened myself to him, and he slipped a finger inside me, pumping back and forth in a quick motion that drove me crazy with need. He added another finger, and my pleasure only increased, to the point that it was almost painful.

I threw back my head and clenched myself around his fingers, tighter and tighter, trying to find my release. But Owen was just as good at this game as I was, and he wouldn’t let me slip off the edge any more than I had let him before. After several sweet minutes of torture, he pulled me away from the wall and lowered me to the bed.

“You stay right there,” he murmured.

Like I had any intention of going anywhere right now.

I took my little white pills, but Owen grabbed a condom out of the nightstand and covered himself with it for extra protection. He reached for me again, but I grabbed his shoulders and made him sit up on the bed. I did my slow grind again, moving up and down on his lap. He wasn’t satisfied to just watch this time. His hands were everywhere on my body, even as his head dipped lower and his mouth latched onto one of my nipples, scraping the taut bud with his teeth until I groaned with pleasure.

Back and forth we moved on the bed, first with me on top, then Owen, ours hands and mouths all over each other, taking every single ounce of pleasure the other had to give — and then some.

Finally, we came together, Owen sliding inside me, my hands on his back, urging him to go deeper, harder.

“Yes,” I breathed against his neck. “Yes.”

Then we both went over the edge — together.

Afterward we lay there in bed, a loose tangle of arms and legs. I felt more sated and loved — physically and otherwise — than I had in a long time. For once, all the soft things that I was feeling, all the tender emotions in my heart, didn’t scare me. Not now. Not with Owen. And I had a feeling they never would again.

And most importantly, I could tell he felt the same. It was in the way he kissed me, the way he looked at me, the way he held me, even now, his fingers sliding through my hair, my head on his chest, both of us curled together, each one enjoying the other’s warmth and the simple, quiet pleasure of just lying here.

“So I’ve been thinking about your idea for Christmas,” I murmured, lightly running my nails across his broad, muscled chest. “About having a holiday party here.”

Owen raised an eyebrow. “And?”

I drew in a breath. “And I think it’s a good one. I’ve already asked Bria to come.”

Owen didn’t say anything for a moment. “Are you going to tell her then? That you’re really her sister?”

I nodded. “I think so. Things are getting too complicated with LaFleur and Mab. I can protect Bria better if she knows the truth. I just hope she can accept who and what I am — and what I plan on doing to Mab.”

Owen’s arms tightened around me, and he gathered me close once more. “If Bria Coolidge is half the woman you are, then I think she’ll understand everything you’ve been through. You said yourself that she came back to Ashland to find you, to investigate the murder of your mother and older sister.”

That was the conclusion I’d drawn the night I’d broken into Bria’s house to keep Elliot Slater and his giants from killing her. Finn had snooped around after the fact and had found something interesting in Bria’s office — a dry-erase board that contained every known detail about the murder of our mother, Eira, and older sister, Annabella. It looked as if Bria had come back to Ashland for the sole purpose of trying to bring Mab to justice for what the Fire elemental had done to our family.

But that hadn’t been the only thing on the murder board. Bria had also had a picture of one of the spider rune scars on my palms taped up there, courtesy of Fletcher. After he’d died, from beyond the grave, the old man had arranged to have a photo of Bria delivered to me so I would realize she was still alive — and he’d sent her one of the scar on my palm in return so she would know the same. I supposed Fletcher had wanted us to find each other — one way or another.

I hoped that Owen was right about Bria accepting me and my dark, murky past, but I couldn’t get rid of the tight ball of unease that twisted my stomach. Finding out that your long-lost sister was also a notorious assassin who was going around town killing bad guys wasn’t exactly the stuff dreams were made of. So I decided to focus on other matters, starting with the man beside me.

I trailed my hand down Owen’s chest, drawing a series of loose circles, before going lower and taking him in my hand.

“Round two?” I suggested, sliding my nails up and down his thick length.

Owen grinned and pulled me even tighter. “I think I’m up for that.”

I responded by lowering my lips to his once more.