Samurai Game (Ghostwalkers, #10)(47)

“No, baby,” he whispered. “Stay with me,” he coaxed. “Stay with me.”

He stared down at that baby face. She looked so familiar. That silky white hair that made no sense, the dark eyes fringed heavily with black lashes, the soft skin. He recognized her face and yet her name eluded him.

“Please,” he pleaded, afraid to lift her into his arms. She was like a broken doll, and anywhere he touched her would hurt. “Stay with me,” he repeated.

“Open your eyes,” she answered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam blinked. Above him, that same face swam into view, older now, no longer ravaged, but serene and composed. He blinked again, trying to understand. The child had white hair, this woman had hair as black as midnight.

“Sam, look at me. Wake up. You’re having another nightmare.”

“Azami.” He breathed her name, more breath than sound. His heart jumped at the sight of her. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

She brushed at his hair with gentle fingers, barely a touch, just that whisper of movement against his skin, but he felt it right through to his bones. “You were having a nightmare.”

He caught her hand. She instantly curled her fingers into a fist and took a step back, shaking her head. He pried open her fingers one by one and pressed her palm over his heart. His gaze searched hers. Her eyes didn’t drop. She let him see who she was. His breath caught in his throat and he lifted a hand to her cap of black silk.

“Your hair was white,” he whispered. “The child in my nightmares was you, but your hair was white.”

Azami pressed her lips together and then slowly nodded. “I prefer to allow you to believe that I’m beautiful. I suppose sooner or later you’ll have to know that isn’t true at all.” Her smile was brief and a little wistful. “You made me feel beautiful.”

Sam sat up, and then waited a moment for the room to right itself and the flash of pain moving through his abdomen to fade. He tugged on her hand to pull her close to the bed until she either had to tip over or sit on the bed. “You are beautiful, Azami.”

She raised a tentative hand to her hair. It was the first time she looked truly vulnerable. “It isn’t real.”

He sank his fingers into the thick mass of hair, his fingers curling into a fist, crushing strands in his palm. “This is no wig, honey. I can tell the difference between real hair and a wig.” Her hair felt like pure silk.

A faint smile curved her mouth even as she swallowed hard. Sam kept one anchored in her hair, the other pressing her palm to his chest.

“Tell me.” Clearly she didn’t want to. Her revelation had to be a matter of pride with her. A woman’s pride, not a samurai warrior’s pride. He understood that very clearly just by the way her gaze wavered for just a split second. She was Azami Yoshiie, a trained samurai, and she didn’t falter long, but he caught the tiny hesitation just before her chin lifted and her eyes locked on his.

“The color, I dye it. I’ve already gone gray, or at least, in my case, white. My hair turned white when I was a child—around three.”

Rage burst through him, hot and bright, a volcanic emotion that shook him as nothing else ever had. Three years old.

“How long did that monster have you?” he asked, his voice low because it was the only way he could control it.

Azami didn’t deny the obvious. She shrugged. “I was eight when my heart gave out and he threw me out. He put me in a box and shipped me to Japan. His men took me to an alley in a part of the city where the sex trades were and they tossed me out like a piece of garbage. I suppose to Whitney I was. He always said I was useless, and eventually my body just refused to hold up to his experiments.”

He wanted to drag her into his arms and shelter her, just as he had the small child she’d been. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He meant it too. “Is that when your father found you?”

She nodded. “I was skinny, my body a mass of ugly scars and my heart trying to decide if it would function or give up.” A tiny smile broke through, an affectionate memory she found amusing. “My father shaved my head in the hopes my hair would come back black. It came back streaked. I look a bit like a skunk unless I dye it.”

He found the memory more heartbreaking than entertaining, but he smiled just the same because he could see she needed him to feel that same delight in her reminiscence of her father. “I’ve always found skunks to be quite beautiful,” he admitted, sincerity lending his voice a solemn tone. He inhaled. “And you smell amazing, unlike a skunk.”

Genuine laughter reached her eyes. “I don’t know, Sam. I think a skunk’s smell might be pretty amazing.”

He ran a finger down her face, lingering on her soft lips. “Why didn’t you tell me about Whitney?”

“Lily. I wasn’t certain if she was working with her father.”

“Did you come to kill her?”

She pulled back, frowning at him.

“I could understand if that had been your intention, Azami,” he admitted. She hadn’t tried to lie about being that child to him and he was fairly certain she wouldn’t lie about this.

“No, she wanted to purchase one of our satellites. I had turned down her father. I had to meet her and decide whose side she was on.”