From the moment she was near him, every nerve ending in his body had gone on alert, every sense seemed heightened. He was very aware of the wind in the trees—the smoke drifting through the canopy and the sound of insects ceasing to their right. A wave of silence suddenly descended once again, spreading around them. He dropped low, signaling to her as he would his men, an automatic reaction before his brain registered that she was a civilian and wouldn’t recognize the need for silence and to go to ground. He turned his head and found she was in position, bow and arrow at the ready.
In that one swift glance over his shoulder, he found every detail of her imprinted on his mind. The scent of her drifting with the wind, a fresh, citrusy smell that teased his senses. The way the breeze slipped fingers into her thick, shiny hair, feeding a need to do the same just to feel the silky strands against his bare skin. He knew it was insane to be in the middle of a combat situation and be so completely captivated by the way the light played over her flawless skin and brought attention to the outrageous long lashes surrounding her cat’s eyes.
It was just a little bit sick to be so completely taken with her just because she was a warrior woman. She appeared demure and even introverted—not at all the type of woman to appeal to him. Sam wanted a woman with her own opinions, one with complete confidence in herself as a sexy, intelligent female, not some yes-person who agreed with everything he said. He wanted more than a physical attraction and, unfortunately, his relationships never seemed to last beyond the first date. He’d never considered a female soldier—not once—when he’d thought about a partner, but Azami Yoshiie was damned sexy with a bow and arrow in her hands and that composed, serene look on her face.
“What is it?” she asked.
Her voice sang in his veins as if tuned specifically to his body. He turned away from her as a thought crossed his mind. Was he too tuned to her? Was there something else at work? He shook his head, thankful his back was to her. His thoughts were too outrageous to be considered—but on the other hand, Whitney had paired male and female soldiers together using pheromones and some sort of a virus that reacted in the brain to create paths bonding mates to one another.
He took his time examining the terrain around them. Something was out there—and coming toward them, not in the vehicle that seemed to be going away from them. An amateur trick. He had been leading Azami toward the next bunker, hidden a good twenty feet beneath the earth, intending to get her out of danger and under wraps where the enemy had no chance to acquire or kill her on his watch. Daiki Yoshiie’s sister might be worth secrets to the billionaire. He was certain they were cut off from the bunker he’d been trying to get to.
“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 . . .