The training hall beneath the De Luca mansion smelled of sweat, polished steel, and old blood. Raven arrived at dawn, burning from the poisoned wine humiliation the night before. Sleep had been useless, and every time she closed her eyes she saw Vincent's knowing smile as he poured the tainted decanter into the fire. The remnant ache between her legs had faded to a dull reminder, but her pride? That was raw and bleeding.
She wore loose black training pants and a fitted tank top, hair tied back tight. Two practice knives rested in sheaths at her hips, blunted edges for sparring but deadly enough in the right hands. She'd come here for one reason, to sharpen herself against the best the De Luca family had.
Adrian Cross — The Reaper — waited for her in the center of the large mats, arms loose at his sides. The elite assassin commander was dressed similarly, his cold features impassive. A thin scar ran along his jawline, a souvenir from some past hunt. He watched her approach.
