Elemental Assassin 05 - Spider's Revenge

frustration. A month ago, before I’d taken on Mab, I would have already hit him a dozen times while we sparred. Now it took all the energy I had just to swing a sword at him for five minutes.
    Owen grinned and rocked back on the balls of his feet. “Not bad for a woman who was at death’s door a few weeks ago.”
    I paused a moment to catch my breath. “But not nearly good enough for me.”
    We stood in the depths of Owen’s mansion in his private gym. Mats covered the floor, while mirrors lined three of the walls. The fourth wall was reserved for the rows of exquisite weapons that Owen crafted in his blacksmith forge in the back of the house. Swords, daggers, knives, maces, even an ax or two.
    The two of us had been coming here and sparring ever since the day Jo-Jo had let me out of bed. It was hard—so fucking
hard
—but I worked myself to exhaustion every single day, then pushed a little harder. The Ashland underworldwouldn’t stay in a tizzy forever, and sooner or later, folks were going to start looking in my direction. And I’d be damned if I wasn’t ready when they did.
    I used the sleeve of my T-shirt to wipe a bit of sweat off my forehead, and Owen frowned in concern.
    “Are you tired, Gin? Do you need to take a break—”
    I launched myself at him, whipping my sword through a series of moves. Owen parried the first blow, and even the second, but the third slipped past his defenses, and my blade just kissed his throat.
    “Now that’s more like it,” I crowed.
    Owen’s eyes narrowed. “You cheated. You took me off guard.”
    “And you should have known better than to think that an assassin
wouldn’t
cheat,” I smirked. “Especially the Spider.”
    “Hmm.”
    Owen made a noncommittal grunt and used the tip of his own sword to gently push mine away. But instead of raising his weapon again, Owen put his sword on the ground and sauntered toward me. He was dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants just like I was, but he wore them oh so well. The thin cotton stretched across his chest, highlighting his strong, firm muscles, while the sweatpants hung low on his hips, hinting at the hardness that was hidden under there as well. Mmm. A different sort of heat flared in the pit of my stomach. It matched the passion burning in Owen’s eyes.
    “You know,” he murmured, tugging my sword out of my hands and lowering it to the floor. “I think we should move on to the hand-to-hand combat portion of today’s workout.”
    I arched an eyebrow. “Really? What did you have in mind?”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Owen said, drawing me into his arms. “Perhaps something that will improve your flexibility.”
    “I happen to be quite flexible,” I retorted. “You’re the one who threw his back out in bed the other night.”
    Owen grinned. “Which is exactly why I think that you should be on top today.”
    He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my throat, his hands already working their way under my T-shirt, just as mine were dipping below the waistband on his pants.
    “So what do you say, Gin?” Owen said. “Care for a little one-on-one action? Think you can handle it?”
    My hand slid down, closing around his thickening length. Owen’s breath rasped against my neck.
    “Oh,” I murmured, turning my head to stare into his eyes. “I think that I can handle anything you’ve got, Grayson.”
    Our lips met, and we spent the rest of the afternoon engaging in a far more pleasurable form of sparring.
    Another week passed. Every day I got a little stronger, a little tougher, until slowly, the old Gin Blanco emerged once more. Jo-Jo pronounced me fit to go back to work just as the last of the winter snow melted away in mid-March. One day, it was cold and frigid. The next, it seemed like spring had swept in with all her bright green glory trailing along behind her.
    Six weeks after my fight with Mab, I walked through the front door of the Pork Pit. It was just after ten, andI’d come in to open the restaurant for the day. I flicked on the overhead lights, even though the morning sunlight was already streaming in through the storefront windows.
    This was the first time that I’d been in the restaurant since my battle with Mab. For a moment, I just stood there by the door, my eyes sweeping over all the familiar furnishings. The blue and pink booths, the matching pig tracks on the floor, the long counter along the back wall, the battered cash register. They all greeted me like old friends. I breathed in, and