"I told you that your Ice magic would only get stronger since you overcame the block of having that silverstone in your hands," Jo-Jo said in a soft voice. "I'd say that it's the equal of your Stone power now. It was what saved you last night. And it's what will help you kill Elektra LaFleur. Don't be afraid of it, Gin. Don't be afraid of yourself."

I didn't meet the dwarf's eyes, but another shiver swept through me just the same.

Because it was too late for all that now. It had been ever since the night Mab had murdered my family.

Jo-Jo went into the den to put some blankets over Vinnie's and Natasha's still-sleeping forms. The dwarf agreed with me that the two of them needed to stay out of sight for the next few days, which meant they'd be bunking here for a little while longer. At least until I'd dealt with LaFleur-one way or another.

I took a long, hot shower and put on the spare set of clothes Finn had brought over for me earlier. Then I went back downstairs, fully intending to head over to the Pork Pit for the rest of the day, help out Sophia, and see if LaFleur came by for her inevitable visit.

To my surprise, Owen was waiting downstairs in the kitchen.

"I thought you were going home to Eva," I said.

"I'm going to go right now," he said, getting to his feet. "And you're coming with me."

"I am?"

Owen nodded. "You are. You need to rest, Gin. At least for one more day before you put yourself out there as bait for that assassin."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you're, what? Offering to take care of me for the rest of the day?"

Owen nodded again. "Night too," he said in a husky voice. "If you'll let me."

I stared into his violet eyes, looking once again for any hint, any sign, that he'd finally wised up. That Owen had finally realized how cold, violent, twisted, and emotionally distant I really was, and that he was finally ready to pretend he'd never met me. But there was nothing in his gaze but warm acceptance-and stubborn determination to watch out for me, even if I didn't want him to. Even if I didn't think I deserved it. Even if I didn't think I was actually worthy of someone's time, consideration, attention, and sympathy.

The tangled threads around my heart tightened a little more.

Just for Owen standing there in Jo-Jo's kitchen and caring enough about me to try to delay my inevitable death at least one more day. The realization, the sheer force of it, took my breath away, and I had to reach out and put one hand on the kitchen table to steady myself.

"So," Owen said, "are you coming along peaceful-like, or am I going to have to hog-tie you and put you in the car?"

"Promises, promises, sheriff," I quipped. "You have no idea how much I like being tied up."

A slow, lazy grin spread across Owen's chiseled face. "Well, maybe that's one of the things we can talk about in greater detail-at my house this evening."

The grin dropped from his face, and he was serious once more. "What do you say, Gin? Come home with me. Even if it's only for today."

Please. He didn't say the word, but we both heard it in the rough, raw tone of his voice. And try as I might, I couldn't stop the silken threads wrapped around my heart from quivering in agreement. From wanting to enjoy just one more carefree day and night with Owen, before I focused all my attention on the deadliest enemy I'd ever faced.

"All right," I said in a teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood and the unfamiliar, uncomfortable emotions flooding my chest. "But only if we can talk about that tied-up thing in much greater detail."

"Oh," Owen said, another grin creasing his face. "I think we can arrange that."

Chapter 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.