I wasn’t sure what Owen had been about to say about me, whether I was merely a friend or an ex or something else entirely, but I didn’t want to find out. Not like this, anyway.

Still, the irony of the situation cut me like one of my own knives. The last time Owen had introduced me to a woman, it had been Salina, whom I’d had to kill. At the time, he’d failed to mention that she was his ex-fiancée. I wondered what sort of relationship he had with Jillian—if they’d been lovers in the past or if this was new.

Because it was obvious she wanted to start up something with him. I could tell by the way her hand tightened on his arm as she stepped even closer to him. Plus, the shoes were a dead giveaway. Women didn’t wear heels like that because they were comfortable. They wore them because of the way they made their legs look long and lean—and made men salivate over them.

Was Owen—could he be—were they out on a date?

My stomach twisted at the thought of Owen with someone else. That he might have already moved on without even telling me. That our relationship might be well and truly dead. The idea hurt so much that I couldn’t even breathe for a second.

But the shock of the moment passed, and the jagged, broken pieces of my heart kept right on beating just like they always did, even if every steady thump-thump-thump brought a fresh wave of pain along with it.

Despite my treacherous, unwanted, seesawing emotions, I decided to be gracious about things. Acting the bitch wouldn’t help matters. Besides, Jo-Jo had taught me better manners than that.

Gin Blanco. The Spider. Notorious assassin. Polite to a fault.

“Love your dress,” I joked.

Jillian smoothed down the fabric of her skirt. “Oh, yeah. Yours too.”

We both laughed, but my voice sounded hard and brittle—just like my heart.

The three of us stood there, shifting on our feet, not sure what to say to each other to break the silence that was growing more strained and awkward by the second. I glanced around the rotunda, hoping Finn was nearby so I could excuse myself more easily. It took me several seconds, but I finally spotted my foster brother—and he wasn’t alone.

Three other people stood with him. One was a tall, strong-looking man with blond hair that was slicked back into a ponytail. The other two were women, one young, only twenty, with dark hair and blue eyes, the other older but even more beautiful, with black hair and toffee-colored eyes and skin. Phillip Kincaid, Eva Grayson, and Roslyn Phillips. Familiar faces, since Phillip was Owen’s best friend, Eva was his younger sister, and Roslyn was another member of my extended family.