Toxic Game (GhostWalkers #15) - Christine Feehan Page 0,105
a family and she knew she never would.
“I remember they had this very cool tea service. I noticed it because it was hand-painted and it had blue peonies on it. Can you imagine?” Now there was a smile in her voice. “Me, noticing peonies? It was this incredibly beautiful, clearly vintage tea service. I’m certain it must have been in their family for a generation or two. It was the way they touched it, so gently, almost reverently.”
He heard the wistfulness in his voice. “Describe it for me.”
She laid her cheek on his chest again. “I actually went back later, snuck in and took pictures, so I could look it up. It was a Russian samovar and was hand-painted with the blue peonies. It was a traditional Russian tea set, with a tray, teapot and warmer. The spigot and tap was this glorious gold, as were the legs of the warmer, spout and handle of the teapot. The tea glasses were crystal looking but the holders were hand-painted with the blue peonies and had gold filigree. It was so beautiful, Draden. I looked at that and thought about generations celebrating their own special occasions the same way, and I wanted to cry because I knew I’d never have that. Not in a million years.”
The wistfulness in her voice was heartbreaking. He wrapped his arms around her, trying to protect her from her life, from the virus, from knowing they were going to die an agonizing death. He wanted something, just one thing, to be perfect, to be everything she wanted before she was too sick to enjoy it. Before she died.
“I was there to kill someone, and that family was celebrating life, celebrating the birth of a child. That was the first time I realized that some people had something truly beautiful and it was called family. I wanted that for myself—and that tea set. It was elegant and beautiful, and it represented that bond they had as well as their connection to the past.”
“Family isn’t always blood, baby,” he said. “I was lucky enough to have a woman take me in as her child and teach me what family really is. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. She sang a lot, and every night she sat on the edge of the bed and told me stories. They were always about knights and dragons. Good versus evil kind of stories. I guess that was our ritual.”
He rubbed her back and hips, trying to ease the soreness out of her. “On Sunday mornings, she would make me eggs and pancakes with bacon. The pancakes were always cut in the shape of a shield. I know she didn’t have a mold, but she did it for me because I loved the idea of the two of us having a shield. She carved two dragons facing each other and words like courage, bravery and integrity into the pancakes. She said that was our crest. The way we lived.”
He was silent a moment, allowing his memories to flood his mind. It was painful to think about his mother, those long months of her illness while she wasted away in front of him and he was helpless to save her. “She kissed me every night. Every single night, even when she couldn’t get out of bed and I went to her. She would always say good night and tell me she loved me.”
Just whispering that much to Shylah, sharing something he fiercely guarded, something so private he held close, was difficult. Those days of happiness had been brief, but he treasured every one of them. He’d locked those memories away, keeping them safe from what he’d become, what the streets had shaped him into being.
“She sounds beautiful and amazing.” There were tears swimming in her eyes, and dripping off her lashes, but she smiled at him.
“She was. Even when she was dying she was beautiful. This light came from inside her.” He stroked more caresses down the back of her head, fingers tangling in her thick hair. “I’ve seen that same light in two other women. Nonny, Wyatt’s grandmother, and you.” It was the highest compliment he could pay her, and he hoped she understood.
She lifted her head and brushed his jaw with kisses. The little wisps of fire trailed down to his throat. He tightened his arms possessively. Yeah. She knew.
“I really love you, Draden. I don’t want you to think you weren’t loved after you lost her, because you are.”