Shadow Reaper (Shadow #2)(60)
Akahoshi had moved to the United States, specifically Chicago, following three other family members. He had contacted Ricco to see if he wanted to continue with his instructions and of course Ricco had. Now the rope was a part of him and he exceeded his master in training. Still, he returned to compare knots, to talk to the man he credited with saving his life. The council might have driven him to suicide had it not been for Akahoshi.
He'd been conditioned to believe the murders were his fault for being late, for getting turned around. The lives of his family depended on his silence and his skills. He continued to train daily, and at night he haunted the homes of his brothers and sister in order to protect them. He'd developed a thin razor-like strip to attach to the bottom of the door, blocking out all shadows, so no rider could slide through and surprise his family in their sleep. It was easy enough and fast to remove with a single touch, making it possible for them to escape if necessary via the doors.
Sighing, he sat up. When he was like this, restless and unable to sleep, he often visited Akahoshi. His former master always had rope models available to work with and he could lose himself that way. He didn't want to bring trouble to Akahoshi's door, suspecting that because he took Ricco's side and protected him all those years ago, the council members had made it difficult for the instructor to remain in Tokyo.
He could insist that Mariko join him in the studio. He was not 100 percent yet when it came to working out, and his head was still giving him trouble, but although he was paying her, he would never ask her to join him. Not when he was so edgy and moody. His sister Emmanuelle always called this side of him his "dark, scary and very dangerous." No one wanted to be around him when he was like that. If he went to Akahoshi, he usually was brutal in his ties, laying rope in the more traditional punishing knots.
He would never take a chance of accidentally hurting one of the female rope models, let alone Mariko. She needed care. It wasn't that she was fragile, far from it, but she'd obviously never known kindness. She still wasn't opening up to him and he'd practically shoved his entire history down her throat.
He groaned as he sat up, pushing both hands through his hair. The room spun for a moment and then righted itself, letting him know he was a mess. Of course, he'd have to be at his worst when he met Mariko. He prided himself on his abilities, and already she'd had to save the day.
He stripped, tossing his clothes in the vicinity of the hamper. He had bad habits from living alone so long. Emmanuelle told him he was a slob every chance she got – although he knew he wasn't. He just never picked up his dirty clothes until it came time to wash them – something he'd have to get over if he could ever convince Mariko to forgive him and to take a chance on him.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he stepped into the double shower. His chest was scarred and he touched one of the long streaks the tip of the sword had left behind in his flesh. His shame was carved into his skin for everyone to see. The number-one question always asked by any woman he was with was how he got those distinctive scars. He made up outrageous stories, turning the moment to laughter when that well of rage always opened up inside of him at the question.
He'd been unarmed and all four boys had extremely sharp swords. The scars should have been badges of courage, but they represented failure to him. He stepped under the pouring hot water and let it ease the pain in his tight muscles. What he wouldn't give for a decent massage. He never could relax enough to get one. He was too busy looking over his shoulder. Even in the shower he felt vulnerable and always faced out toward the room. It was an insane way to live, but he'd been doing it for so many years, he wasn't certain he could live any other way.
He rinsed off the soap and shampooed his hair. It was getting too long. He rarely bothered to have it cut by a professional. He just had Emme chop it off for him. It grew thick and wild, and when it annoyed him, he handed her the scissors. She always shook her head, but she did as he asked and cut it for him.
He pulled on loose-fitting pants, tightened the drawstring, pulled on a tight T-shirt and walked barefoot down the hall into the training room. The moment he set foot inside, he allowed himself to acknowledge his state of mind. This edginess wasn't all about the memories so close, although that was a good part of it. He had lost her – Mariko. And what kind of fate had dictated that the little girl he'd saved would be sent to kill him and he'd fall like a ton of bricks for her.