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of several swords to my left before finally selecting a talwar; a Persian sabre with a wickedly curved edge that ran thirty-three inches in length with a six-inch hilt. I tested its weight in my right hand, judging it in around forty-seven or forty-eight ounces. It was crafted to be a thrusting sword, a blade meant to kill in a single strike with deadly precision. With my weapon of choice in hand, I headed to the center of the mat and faced off with my imaginary opponent, taking a moment to center myself. Closing my eyes, I pictured an enemy on an open battlefield. The breeze whistled in my ears and the scent of freshly cut grass tickled my nose. Taking the time to visualize the scene made it that much more real.
    Far away from the gym and after inhaling another lungful of air, I opened my eyes and thrust the sabre in a fluid motion, following through with a strike while moving my feet to the left and twisting my shoulders to bring the sabre back for a second strike to my opponents back, coming from my right. I repeated the movement several times until my body remembered the steps without conscious thought.
    With beads of sweat dripping down my brow, I changed up my movements and reversed my strikes.
    After thirty minutes passed, confidence in my abilities to strike at a would-be assailant from either angle rose. I began to parry and thrust, alternating directions. Left then right, right then left, and then mixed my directions even further. Right, right, left. Left, right, left, and then right, left, right. Changing directions until no pattern remained.
    Time blurred, no longer relevant in the haze of my imaginary battle. I was covered in sweat, my clothes sticking to the curves of my body. Deciding to give it one more round I made a swift thrust to my right when all of a sudden my gaze caught on a dark shadow in the corner of the room.
    I abruptly stopped my forward momentum and caught the familiar steel colored gaze of a man wrapped in shadows. Dressed in a faded black tee and black denim jeans paired with matching boots, he looked predatory, lurking in the darkened corner of the room.
    I winced, my arm lifting to wipe the sweat from my forehead with the hem of my shirt, the dull ache in my neck and shoulders from the vigorous workout telling me I’d been down here for a while.
    “I thought we were meeting up later?” I placed the talwar back in its resting place along the wall.
    James made a look at his non-existent watch, looking up at me with a quirk of his brow. “It is later,” he said, his voice thick like honey along my senses.
    “Right.” I took a seat on the bench holding my jacket. James tossed me a bottle of water he seemed to acquire out of thin air. Not bothering to question where he’d pulled it from, I twisted off the cap and drank half its contents in one long pull.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “No problem.” He shrugged.
    “So just how much later is it now? I seem to have lost track of time down here.”
    James stepped farther from the shadowed corner to stand about six feet in front of me. Looking down at me from his high vantage point he said, “A little after eight a.m., I stopped by your apartment before heading here. When I knocked and you didn’t answer, this was your most likely destination.”
    I nodded. The gym was practically my second home. I came by on an almost daily basis, sometimes multiple times in the same day. The smell of sweat and leather was comforting, reminding me of the home I’d lost.
    “Puppy want to play?” I quirked a brow in question.
    The frown on James’ face told me he didn’t find me at all funny. That was okay because I found myself hilarious.
    “Shouldn’t we head over to meet with the Blackmores?”
    I shrugged my shoulders. “We don’t have an appointment so it makes no difference. Besides, they’re grieving, I doubt they’ll be going anywhere.”
    He seemed to ponder it for a few minutes. I was sore and if it was already eight a.m. that meant I’d