Samurai Game (Ghostwalkers, #10)(17)

“What do your names mean? Azami is pretty. Does it have a pretty meaning?” All GhostWalker women, females Whitney had taken from orphanages around the world and experimented on, had been given the names of flowers or seasons. Whitney had dehumanized them, not even allowing them to know their own birth dates. Azami Yoshiie couldn’t possibly be one of those girls, but his body was too attracted and she raised such an alert, his radar shrieking at him. Something was off somewhere. He kept his tone very casual and very low, projecting his voice solely to her, as if they were discussing the weather and the topic didn’t matter at all.

“My name can be interpreted as heart of the thistle or flower of the thistle. In any case, my father thought the name was pretty.” She kept her voice equally hushed. There was affection for her adopted father in her voice.

Sam didn’t make the mistake of turning around, but his heart rate jumped, just for a moment at the word “flower.” “And your brothers?”

“Eiji can be interpreted as two protectors.”

“A good name for a bodyguard,” Sam commented. “And Daiki?”

She laughed softly and he did turn, the sound was intriguing and musical. He could listen to that sound forever. She was still ready, the bow and arrow waiting, but her eyes were soft with memories.

“Daiki means great tree. Even as a young boy he was big.” She hesitated. “We tease him about being so powerful and great, but his name can also mean noble, and just between the two of us, so he doesn’t get a big head, I secretly think his name says who he really is.”

The crack of a branch snapping was loud. Something hit a tree trunk with a resounding crash. Sam turned and dove onto Azami, all in one move, taking her down hard, both arms going around her and rolling away from the sound. He did his best to protect her from the worst of the rocks and fallen branches. Azami didn’t fight; instead she ducked her head into his chest and held on while he took them as far from that sound as possible.

The explosion rocked the ground, the sound so loud it hurt their ears. Sam put his lips against Azami’s ear so she would feel his mouth moving. His words, however, were projected into her mind. Are you hurt? His breath caught in his throat—waiting.

Azami shook her head, an almost imperceptible movement.

They have someone waiting ahead of us and on either side. They’ll keep blasting, herding us toward their trap. I want you to backtrack . . .

Before he could finish, she shook her head again and pressed her lips against his ear. “I’m staying with you. Just move.”

Azami was telepathic. There was no question in his mind she was psychic. She’d felt those surges of energy when he’d contacted Kadan and Nico and she’d heard him clearly, although he hadn’t spoken aloud.

Thorn stiffened, her fingers curling around the dagger hidden beneath her jacket. She’d screwed up. Totally screwed up. The moment Sam’s arms had wrapped around her body and she felt him, felt every muscle hard and defined, felt his much larger body imprisoning hers, she went into major meltdown. Never, in all her existence, had such a thing happened. Her world—she—was all about control.

Eight years of her life had been spent in torture and she’d never flinched, never once made a mistake. The years with her father had instilled even more discipline, and yet with Sam’s scent finding its way into her lungs, invading every one of her heightened senses, she couldn’t find her breath. The sensation was so strong, so intrusive, she felt threatened at her most elemental level—and yet more alive than she’d ever felt in her life.

She had been very careful to keep apprised of Whitney’s experiments and she knew he paired GhostWalkers with his orphaned female soldiers, but she was gone long before Sam had become a GhostWalker. She couldn’t be paired with him. Whitney could have perhaps saved something of her DNA to pair her with Sam, but he didn’t have access to Sam prior to her being thrown away. It was impossible and yet . . .

Breathe.

That single, velvet-soft enticement filled her mind, rocking her far more than the second explosion did. His voice was a caress, a weapon with more power than a knife or a gun had over her. Instinctively she began to inch the dagger from the sheath. Sam’s hand clamped down hard on her wrist.

Our enemies have us surrounded. Do you really want to go to war with me right now? Let’s get out of this first and deal with what’s happening between us afterward.

She detested that he knew her reaction to him—but at least she wasn’t alone. He’d admitted he was just as shaken as she was. Shame poured through her. Regret. She had dishonored herself and her father by such a disgraceful mistake. Nevertheless, she had to move forward. She relaxed her grip on the dagger and nodded her head to indicate she agreed with him.

We move straight ahead. They’re trying to keep us boxed in. We’ll have to take out the soldiers in front of us as quietly as possible and slip through their line. I’ve tried to isolate separate sounds to see what we’re looking at, but the concussions messed up my hearing.

Sam’s voiced steadied her. He was matter-of-fact, a soldier assessing their situation. She forced air into her lungs. Sharing her mind with him seemed almost more intimate than sharing her body. He was everywhere, his body rock-hard while she had melted into him, becoming part of him. She felt as if she shared his very breath. She was samurai and she could handle this utterly intimate position with a fellow warrior.