Elemental Assassin 03 - Venom

letting him know exactly what was waiting for him, if only he’d get on with things. Owen’s shoulders bunched and tightened that much more under my fingers—along with other parts of him.
    “Now who’s teasing?” he rasped.
    I laughed.
    Owen started kissing my neck, nibbling at it the dainty way a rabbit might work on a carrot. One hand held me close to his chest, while the other one started its exploration of one of my breasts, then the other.
    Somewhere between that first kiss and Owen’s hand sliding up my leg, a funny thing had happened—I realized that I wanted him. Not just for a round of hot sex, though that was in the immediate offing. Somehow over the last few weeks, Owen Grayson had worn me down with his open, unabashed interest, playful banter, and calculated determination. I wanted to see what could happen between us—starting tonight.
    As Owen worked his magic on my neck and breasts, I opened my eyes and weighed the options. The desk I was sitting on was wide enough, but the leather couch to the side would be much more comfortable—
    The doorbell rang. A low, sonorous chime that echoed through the mansion. A moment later, the bell sounded again, and then again, as though someone was jabbing it repeatedly.
    I sighed. “That’s probably Finn.”
    Owen pulled back. “And he can’t wait, can he?”
    I sighed again. “No. More like Roslyn can’t wait.”
    I didn’t often feel guilt, but a sort of shame filled me. Roslyn Phillips had been stalked and worse, and instead of figuring out how I could kill the bastard who’d tortured her, here I was getting busy with a man I knew almost nothing about. Fuck. I was getting soft in my pseudoretirement.
    I scooted off the desk and got to my feet. Owen stepped back and watched me finger-comb my hair and put my dress back into its proper position.
    “Duty calls,” he murmured. “Even for an assassin.”
    I gave him a tight smile. “Sadly, yes.”
    Owen Grayson escorted me to the front door and opened it. Sure enough, Finn stood outside leaning against the doorjamb, his Aston Martin parked in the driveway behind Owen’s Mercedes.
    Finn’s green eyes took in my flushed faced and red lips. A sly smile filled his face. “I do hate to interrupt,” he said. “But we have work to do, Gin.”
    “I know.”
    I turned to Owen. “Sorry to cut the evening short. Rain check?”
    His violet eyes glittered with a hot promise. “Definitely.”
    Owen grabbed my hand, his thumb tracing over the spider rune scar on my palm. I enjoyed the sensation for a moment, before squeezing his hand and slipping mine free.
    I didn’t look back as I slid into Finn’s car, but I could feel Owen’s eyes on me as I got inside and buckled up. Finn hopped into the driver’s seat, cranked the engine, and roared down the driveway away from the gray stone house.
    “Well, I see someone ended the evening on a highnote,” Finn said as he drove through the iron gate that ringed Owen’s property.
    “Not really. You rang the bell before I could get mine done,” I sniped.
    “Sarcasm does not become you, Gin,” he replied. “So I take it Owen took the news well? What exactly did you tell him?”
    “Just about everything.”
    Finn looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Why would you go and do something like that?”
    I shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do. He knew I was involved with Tobias Dawson’s death, and he had his suspicions about me killing Jake McAllister at Mab Monroe’s party. He would have put it all together anyway when Slater’s body turns up cold and rotting somewhere in the next few days.”
    “Do you think he’ll talk?” Finn asked in a low voice.
    I thought about Owen’s confession that he’d wanted to kill Jake McAllister himself. About the other men that he had hurt and killed to protect Eva and himself. About what he thought he owed me for giving him food that night all those years ago. About the hard, passionate way he’d kissed me even after I’d told him exactly who and what I was.
    “No,” I replied. “Owen has his own reasons for keeping his mouth shut.”
    I told Finn what Owen had said about living on the streets and how Fletcher Lane had gotten him his first job as a blacksmith.
    “Dad helped Owen and Eva?” Finn asked. “I never knew about that.”
    “Me neither,” I muttered. “It would have been nice for Fletcher to mention his altruistic streak before he died.”
    Memories of Fletcher Lane flooded my mind. The