Bring Me to Life

She’d forgotten Willow was beside her, until her arm tightened around Tatum’s waist. “Who is that guy?” her friend asked.

Tatum’s mouth and tongue wouldn’t work.

Willow grasped her hand. “Are you okay? You’ve gone seriously pale.”

Somehow, she found the power to whisper, “You can see him?”

“You mean the guy with the bike staring at you like he wants to throw you on the back and race away? Yeah, I can see him. Why wouldn’t I be able to?”

“Because that’s my husband...and he’s dead.”

* * *

SHE LOOKED AS though she’d seen a ghost, which was pretty much true.

No, she looked amazing, but then Tatum always had. Different, but that was to be expected. It had been three years.

They’d both changed.

Evan watched her, waiting. Beneath the lie of his relaxed posture, his body was strung tight.

There was no way to anticipate her reaction. Although he’d sure as hell tried.

In the dark moments, the ones where he thought it might have been better if he had died on that night three years ago, she had been the only thing that had drawn him back from the brink. When he’d watched men, women and children killed in front of him. Hell, when he’d done the killing, trying to justify his actions by remembering the men dying deserved what they had gotten.

The memory of her had kept him going—her rasping laughter, the rare times when her eyes danced with delight and the feel of her body rubbing against his, reminding him there were good things in the world. And that once, before his life had turned to shit, he’d been a part of them.

Evan desperately needed her now. Needed the connection to what he’d left behind.

Without it, he was afraid the darkness would swallow him for good.

Tatum stared at him, a jumble of emotions melting one into another—shock, relief, anger, resolve.

A woman, wearing the same long burgundy dress and velvet wrap as his wife, stood beside her. Tatum murmured something he couldn’t hear. The other woman rocked back on her heels as if she’d been hit, her eyes going wide. She sputtered, wrapped her arm around Tatum’s waist and pulled her tight into the protective shield of her body.

He had no idea who the woman was, but it was obvious she cared about his wife. He was glad. He’d worried about Tatum so much. Hated that his choices had hurt her. Left her alone. But there was no way he could have prevented it.

In true Tatum fashion, she allowed the comforting embrace only for a moment before pulling out of the hold.

That was his wife. She hid her soft, gooey center beneath a steely hard shell. Life had taught her how to protect herself.

It hurt knowing his “death” had only reinforced the lessons.

Tatum’s feet shuffled. Was she going to head back into the group of buildings behind her and pretend he didn’t exist or walk across the street and deal with him? He wasn’t entirely certain.

Apparently, neither was she. Her body hesitated, moving forward and then pulling back several times before she actually took a step toward him. One led to two and three and then a rush of a handful more. She raced across the pavement, her heels clicking against the ice-slicked asphalt.

Evan straightened, spreading his feet wide and dropping his arms to his sides.

Her long dress spun out around her legs, fluttering in the breeze caused by her flight. He braced, thinking she was going to launch herself at him. His heart stuttered, hope and happiness—the first he’d allowed himself to indulge in for a very long time—bubbled up through his chest.

But she didn’t throw herself into his waiting arms.

Instead, she reached back, put every ounce of power behind her shoulder and slapped the shit out of him.

The ringing crack of palm against cheek broke through the night. His head snapped sideways. Evan groaned, an involuntary sound that tore through his throat.

“Bastard,” she hissed.

Cradling his jaw with a hand, Evan slowly righted his body.

Tatum shook out her fingers as she glared at him through tempting, flashing green eyes. Eyes that had haunted both his nightmares and dreams. The worst had been the nightmares where he was certain the enemy had found her, torturing her as revenge for the lies he’d told.

Evan barely registered the other woman hovering behind them. He knew she was there, but he couldn’t drag his gaze away from Tatum long enough to notice her. He’d hoped not to have an audience for this reunion.

“I buried you,” Tatum said. “I stood beside your sobbing mother and father and buried you. For months, I visited your grave, bringing flowers and talking to you, sharing how hard it was to move on and let you go.”

“I know,” he whispered. The anguish in her voice and eyes killed him. What he wanted to do was hold her close, offer her the comfort of his body. Something told him that wouldn’t go over well.

Her eyes flashed. “Where the hell have you been for the last three years?”

“Colombia.”

“And I don’t suppose they had cell phones, or email or, hell, a post office in Colombia?”

He thought the anguish was bad, but the caustic rage was ten times worse. It made his chest ache with helplessness. He didn’t like to feel helpless.

“Let me explain.”

“Oh, you’re definitely going to do that. But not now. Not here. This is my friend’s wedding and I will not ruin the rest of their party with your drama. You’ve waited this long, one more night won’t hurt.”

Evan wasn’t entirely certain of that. The moment the Army had released him, he’d hightailed it to Sweetheart, not even bothering to stop for a change of clothes.

He’d been in the States for a little over a week, relating the specifics of his deep-cover mission to some arrogant prick who’d never seen a dirty, dangerous day of battle in his life. Not to mention helping tie up the loose ends after single-handedly dismantling one of the most bloodthirsty and ruthless drug cartels in Colombia. And going ape-shit crazy because the bureaucrats in charge were taking their sweet time and wouldn’t flippin’ release him.

His wife had been so close, and he hadn’t been able to get to her. Beyond frustrating.

The other bridesmaid stepped up beside Tatum, her voice soft and soothing as she said, “I’m sure everyone would understand if you needed to leave, Tatum. Hope and Gage are already gone.”

“Maybe, but that’s beside the point, Willow.” His wife’s hands fisted at her sides.

Evan shifted away, putting a little more space between them just in case she decided she needed to use them on him.

It struck him as hilarious that he’d spent the last three years rubbing elbows with some of the most hardened criminals in South America, constantly wondering if today was the day he’d end up with a bullet in the back, and taken the inherent danger in stride.

But a pissed off Tatum? She scared the shit out of him. Always had. She didn’t hesitate to fight dirty. It was one of the things he’d always loved about her. And hated, since life had taught her the need and skills to do it.

Her gaze darted from him to Willow and back again. Her mouth thinned and her eyes snapped. Finally, she growled, “Dammit!” She poked a finger into his chest. “Stay here.” She wrapped a hand around Willow’s arm and dragged the other woman behind her.