Toxic Game (GhostWalkers 15)

She shrugged and told the truth. “You were magnificent.” She was dying anyway. She might as well tell him the truth. It might have embarrassed her for him to know how much she admired him at any other time, but it wouldn’t matter after they both were gone. “I’d never seen anyone like you before.”

He looked disappointed in her and it took a second for her to comprehend. He thought she was referring to his looks. Most of his life, he’d probably been judged on his looks.

“You went through that village like a ghost. A phantom. The coolest harbinger of death there ever was. Every time I blinked, it seemed you’d killed an enemy.” The words tumbled over one another as she explained. “You were a thing of absolute beauty. I watched with my heart in my throat and every single time you moved between sentries, I was certain you’d give yourself away, but you didn’t. They had no idea you were anywhere near them even when you slipped up behind them and I could see you.”

The tension slid out of Draden and he pulled his tee off with one hand. His belt was next. She held her breath a moment, but he didn’t go any further.

“I can’t believe you watched me the entire time and I didn’t spot you.”

There was admiration in his tone. Exhaustion. She studied his face. “Is the headache bad?” She sat on the edge of the bed and removed her shoes as well. “Let me see if I can help.”

“The Marburg and Ebola virus symptoms often start with a headache.”

Her stomach lurched. She didn’t want to hear that. “It’s too soon and in any case, this virus is manmade, designed by three very narcissistic men. It isn’t Marburg or Ebola. You got hit in the head and you’ve been running around like a maniac ever since.” She spoke with authority, although she had no idea how soon symptoms usually started.

“You’re right, but I haven’t slowed down at all, which means it could take hold faster—maybe,” he qualified. “It isn’t going to start like a normal virus; they injected me with a large dose. I’ve got it, Shylah.”

“Here.” Ignoring his declaration, she scooted to the top of the bed and sat, stretching out her legs. “Put your head in my lap. Zara sometimes got headaches and I’d rub her temples for her. This might help.”

Draden hesitated. “You do know I’m physically attracted to you.”

She did know. It was obvious. He wasn’t a small man and she could see the evidence. “I have to admit, I’m equally as attracted to you. What has that got to do with me soothing a headache?” Her heart pounded as she made the admission.

She’d been raised in the dormitory with the other girls. They’d trained and been educated there. The only men they were around were guards, or supersoldiers, teams sent to kill them if they couldn’t do their jobs. Shylah had learned to be very good at her job, so good, Whitney sent her out of the compound. Then she hunted men to kill them. She certainly hadn’t been attracted to them. She spent more time with Whitney than any other man and if he was any example of what a man was, she wanted no part of that.

“Nothing, sweetheart. I just didn’t want you to be startled if certain parts of my anatomy rise to the occasion.” There was humor in his voice as he stretched out on his back, head in her lap, his body sprawled across the mattress.

Shylah closed her eyes and pushed her fingers into all that thick, wild hair. “Someone besides Whitney gave you amazing genetics.”

There were one or two heartbeats too long before he answered. “I suppose they did. I don’t remember them, so I wouldn’t know what they looked like or if I took after them.”

Shylah sighed. “I never met either of mine. Father or mother. I was abandoned, from what Whitney tells me, and someone took me to the orphanage where he found me. Were you turned over to an orphanage?”

“I was traded for money because my birth mother wanted drugs. I was four at the time, and I can tell you, my life from birth to four was no picnic. She sold me to a woman who wanted kids, but couldn’t have them, at least that was what she told me before she died. I didn’t care. I thought of her as my mother. She was amazing and sweet. The best.”

“What did she look like?” Shylah took her cue from him, speaking of the woman in the past tense.

“She was pretty, at least I thought so. Sweet face. Dark hair until it all fell out. She read to me all the time. Sometimes I think I dreamt her up, but then I remember the songs she sang. They were all learning songs. The alphabet, colors, numbers. She taught me to read. She listened to everything I said and taught me the importance of education.”

Shylah loved the sound of his voice. He didn’t say it, but there was love there. The woman he was telling her about was truly the one he regarded as his mother. Her fingers moved to his temples, stroked along the orbital sockets and back up to his temples, hoping to ease the headache pounding at his skull.

Until it all fell out. Had she gone through chemotherapy? Shylah didn’t ask. Instead, she waited, hoping he would volunteer the information. She had the feeling not too many people knew about the woman who had bought a child.

“What was her name?”

“Eliza. She was probably about forty, but I didn’t notice her age. I don’t recall a single time when she raised her voice to me. There was a lot of laughter. Storytelling.” For a moment his voice stumbled as if he’d choked on something. “I never let myself think about it, but there was love there. If I know anything about that emotion, Eliza taught it to me.”

His ridiculously long lashes lifted and those dark, navy blue eyes were staring at her, moving over her face as if memorizing every line. “She was kind and compassionate, like you are, Shylah. I’d forgotten that. I let her fade into the background, and she never should have been put there. It hurt to remember her too closely.”

Shylah could hardly bear to look into those eyes. Draden didn’t seem to allow himself to feel his emotions, but she could see them, stark and raw reflected in his gaze. Remembering Eliza did hurt him, but at the same time, he was allowing a flood of good memories in—and she had the feeling he needed those memories to balance out other things that had happened to him.

“She sounds lovely.”

He nodded, and his lashes swept down, preventing access to his deepest emotions. Shylah knew she sounded wistful. She’d read about mothers, seen television shows and movies that portrayed the matriarch who doted on her children.

“I never pictured myself with a family,” Draden said, reaching up, his hand covering hers, so that her fingers stilled, pressing into his temple. “But meeting you, I know what I missed. I think you’re very much like her.”

She tried not to feel the burst of pleasure his compliment gave her. She knew it was one of the highest he could pay her. He might not know that, but she did. Eliza might have been the only person he loved in the world.

“Thank you.” What else was there to say? His voice was softer, like he was drifting, not hurting so much and she renewed her efforts, massaging his scalp and then his temples. She enjoyed touching him, having his head in her lap.

“Who taught you to be so compassionate and kind, Shylah? Did you have a mother figure? Someone who looked out for you when you were a baby?”

“We had a series of nurses.” Her earliest memories didn’t have anyone who resembled a mother. “But when I was around three or four, I realized that everyone else came and went but Bellisia and Zara. Even the other girls were moved around. When we were seven, this new house mother came in. Whitney always called them house mothers.”

Her fingers massaged the worst spots right at his temple where his head throbbed to the beat of his heart. Each press against his skull drove the demons away. He couldn’t explain that to her, but he didn’t want her to stop—and she didn’t.

“Keep going, my sweet little peony,” Draden murmured. “I love the way you smell.”

He sounded drowsy, and her heart turned over. She didn’t even correct him referring to that hated flower name, which, strangely, she was beginning to like. She was more than susceptible to him; she