Page 95 of Beautiful Vengeance

She huffed out a laugh. “I plan to be.”

He stood at the curb, waved when the car reached the corner and Megan looked back at him. She would always have a special place in his heart. But the rest of it…

He looked around as Kiyomi strode toward him. His brave, beautiful Valkyrie survivor, her wounded arm strapped to her chest. “Everyone gone now?”

“Yes.” She wrapped her good arm around him, gave him a smile that set his heart thudding. “Take me home, Marcus.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Kiyomi paused with the little ceramic teacup partway to her lips when her great-aunt and great-uncle suddenly stopped talking, their gazes riveted to something over Kiyomi’s shoulder. She glanced back to see a woman in her early-fifties standing there.

She covered her mouth with one hand, staring at Kiyomi as tears pooled in her eyes.

“Emiko, come in.” Her great-aunt stood and beckoned to the woman to join them. When she did, her great-aunt gave Kiyomi a wobbly smile. “This is Emiko. Your mother’s half-sister.”

For a moment, Kiyomi couldn’t breathe. She’d never been so grateful for Marcus’s presence. He’d flown her here the day after her stitches had come out. Her shoulder was sore and stiff, and her entire left arm ached like a bad tooth. The swelling had gone down enough, however, that she only had to wear the sling at night.

He sat beside her now, a silent anchor for her to lean on as a rush of emotion made her chest tighten. “Konichiwa,” she murmured.

Emiko stepped forward and wrapped her slender arms around Kiyomi’s ribs. “Konichiwa, nie.” Hello, niece.

It was awkward hugging a total stranger, but Kiyomi returned the embrace, patting the woman’s back. She seemed overcome.

Several moments later, Emiko finally let her go and pulled back to beam up at her, the other woman’s face wet with tears. “I am so glad to meet you,” she said in slow, clear Japanese.

“She speaks our language well,” Kiyomi’s great-aunt said with a laugh, drawing Emiko to sit down on the cushion set before the low table where the tea service was laid out.

Emiko dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “You look just like your mother.”

Kiyomi leaned forward, overcome with curiosity. She only had vague memories of her mother, no clear pictures of her face. “I do?”

Her great-aunt and Emiko nodded, then her great-aunt’s whole face lit up. “We have photographs.” She struggled to her feet, grabbed her cane, and shuffled into the next room, returning with an album.

Setting it on the table, her great-aunt flipped through it, and stopped. “Here.” She turned it toward Kiyomi. “Your mother and you when you were small. Maybe four or five.”

Kiyomi stared down at the picture, that well-used vault inside her creaking open once more. She did resemble the woman in the picture. It was like staring at her own reflection.

Marcus slipped an arm around her and leaned closer to look. “Do you remember this?” he murmured.

She shook her head. It was taken at the beach. She was wearing a red swimsuit with white polka dots on it, and her mother was wearing a deep blue wrap dress that hugged her slim figure.

“I was there,” her great-aunt said. “I took this picture.”

“She was beautiful,” Kiyomi whispered, voice rough.

“So are you,” Emiko said with a fond smile.

The next two hours went way too fast. They told her the story of how her mother and Emiko had become separated. Kiyomi’s grandmother had become pregnant out of wedlock for a second time, causing a major scandal. Her father had sent her away to await the birth of her second child, and Emiko was given up for adoption weeks later. She had only found out about her half-sister when she’d turned eighteen and become curious enough to do some digging.

No one knew anything about Kiyomi’s father except that he had been a Japanese-American sailor stationed here temporarily and he was apparently the love of her mother’s life. After she lost him while carrying his child—whether because he’d left Japan or because he’d died, no one was sure—she’d never been the same. Never recovered from it.

The sadness had been too great a burden for her to bear. And one day, when Kiyomi was still a girl, her mother had finally succumbed to the heartache and taken her life.

When it was time to go, her great-aunt gave her the photograph to take with her. Kiyomi slipped her shoes on at the door and turned to face her hosts, unsure what to say. Her great-aunt and great-uncle—and her mother’s half-sister stood close together, gazing at her with a mix of fondness and sadness.

Putting her palms together, Kiyomi bowed at the waist slightly and thanked them for their hospitality. “Omotenashi ni kansha shimasu.” Her Japanese was far from perfect, but they seemed to appreciate her efforts.

They beamed and replied in Japanese. “It was our honor to meet you.”

---