Bring Me to Life

It was going to be difficult enough.

Evan watched her shoulders rise and fall on a single, deep breath. Her eyes slid shut and the muscles along her shoulders tightened.

He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and promise her everything would be okay. But she’d made it very clear she didn’t want him to touch her. Yet.

Although he wasn’t entirely certain how long he would be able to deny the need roaring inside him. Three years was a damn long time, especially with drug kingpins constantly thrusting half-naked girls in his face.

He’d gotten a reputation as being cold and indifferent, ignoring all of the female flesh dangled as enticement.

The other men in the cartel had viewed his refusal as a sign of weakness, used it as an excuse to challenge his position within the organization. Even knowing it could cost him his life, he hadn’t touched any of the women. That had been his line in the sand, because what good would living do him if he couldn’t come home to Tatum with a clear conscience?

In the end, having to defend himself against the men who mistook his choice for vulnerability had worked in his favor, even if the price had been bloody and unpleasant. The moment he’d driven a seven-inch knife straight through another man’s hand rather than be forced to lose his principles, his trajectory straight into the heart of the cartel had been assured.

No one questioned him again.

Unfortunately, he’d become something of a challenge to the women who tried to entice him. Not that he’d been tempted.

However, the desire that had lain dormant as scantily clad women paraded around in front of him reared up now to nearly choke him. A primitive, pounding need surged through him, a steady beat through his brain. His hands shook with the instinct to touch Tatum, hold her, finally reclaim her as his.

He needed to get a tight grip on his control or he was going to screw this up totally. He’d been around men who viewed women as commodities way too long, apparently. But at least he was smart enough to realize Tatum would not respond well to that kind of behavior.

Clenching his hands into fists, Evan set them on his thighs and waited.

She finally pushed from the car, juggling a couple of bags and her purse. The slap of her boots against the concrete floor echoed through the cold space of her quiet garage.

She bobbled her bags, shuffling everything around so she could insert her key into the lock. Evan shot forward, trying to take some of the burden from her arms, but she jerked everything out of his reach.

Pushing inside, she dumped it all onto a bench beside the door and kept going. The dress bag slithered to the floor in a heap. Tatum ignored it. Evan couldn’t, reaching down to pick it up and fold it neatly back into place.

She continued through a small kitchen with a pile of dishes in the sink and into a den where she flicked on a single lamp. Warmth flooded the room and he knew immediately this was her sanctuary.

He also knew which chair was her favorite, could envision her curled up, feet tucked beneath her body and a heavy terra-cotta mug cradled between her hands as she stared sightlessly out the long window into the backyard, deep green eyes bleary as she waited for her first cup of coffee to kick in.

Tatum was not a morning person. But he’d always liked that about her. And had shamelessly taken advantage of that fact any chance he could, using her lethargy to convince her another hour in bed was a good idea...especially if they spent it together.

He hadn’t realized the ghost of a smile played across his lips until the snap of Tatum’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Stop smirking.”

His gaze whipped to hers, the tug disappearing from his mouth. “I’m not.”

Tatum stood behind a chocolate-brown sofa, her hands curled over the back as if it was the only lifeline keeping her safe.

“Oh, you were. I have no idea why, and I really don’t care.”

He didn’t believe that for a minute. If he told her what had put that expression on his face she’d be spitting mad in seconds. Which might be an improvement from the wariness she watched him with now.

As though part of her expected him to leap across the sofa she’d placed between them and...ravish? Attack?

He had no idea what she thought, but obviously it was nothing good. At least, nothing she wanted.

Which only reinforced his own disquiet.

Could she sense just how far down the dark rabbit hole he’d had to go? That the trip had left marks on his soul he was deathly afraid could never be erased?

“So.” Her single word hung in the air between them, an invitation he wasn’t quite ready to accept. He knew she wanted answers. Deserved them. But...he wasn’t certain what her reaction would be. He hesitated.

“So,” he countered, his head tipping sideways. “You look good.”

“Gee, thanks. So do you, for a ghost.”

Inwardly, Evan cringed at the acid dripping from her words.

“Stop screwing around and just tell me whatever it is you’ve come to say.”

His mouth went dry. His sharp eyes took in the way her knuckles had gone white where she gripped the sofa. They could both use a drink.

Shooting his gaze around the room, he was grateful to find exactly what he’d been looking for. Crossing the room to a buffet set against the far wall, he recognized the crystal bar set his Aunt Bethany had given them after their wedding.

Sitting next to it on a small table was the only homage to the upcoming holiday he’d seen—a small live tree no more than three feet tall and decorated entirely in gold, blue and chocolate ornaments. It was an afterthought. Expected, but not really wanted. And seeing it made his heart ache a little more.

Grabbing a bottle of Maker’s Mark whiskey, he snagged two of the glasses and poured a healthy dose into each.

Walking back to her, Evan was careful to keep the sofa between them as he offered her one. Tatum’s gaze dropped to the cut crystal and the amber liquid glittering in the bottom of it. She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse.

Her hand trembled as she wrapped it around the cool glass. The warmth of her fingers brushed his. The touch blasted straight through his body, burning in his belly almost as sharply as the drink he hadn’t tasted yet.

His knees pressed against the sofa as his body leaned into the space between them. Tatum jerked away, whiskey sloshing over the side of her glass and dripping onto the cushions.

Her mouth opened. Heat flashed through her eyes. But she slammed it shut before any words fell out.

God, he desperately wanted to bridge the space between them, take her in his arms and kiss the hell out of her. He just wasn’t certain the best way to do it.

It was the first time in their entire relationship that Evan had felt uncertain. Which only made his nerves worse. Turning his back on her and the uncomfortable sensation, he paced away.

“Everyone thought I was dead.”

“No shit.”

“No, I mean for weeks, everyone, the Army, my CO, those in charge of our joint operation, thought I’d died along with the rest of our team.”

“But you didn’t.”

He faced her and his lips gave a sarcastic twitch, “Obviously. Our informant, a local who our contacts had been getting information from for eighteen months without any indication of a problem, gave the team up. I’m still not sure why, but after seeing how the cartel operated, I have a good idea.”

But he wasn’t going to tell her about the torture, kidnapping, blackmail and extortion he’d witnessed.

Evan slammed back his whiskey and immediately wanted another. Stalking over to the sideboard, he poured a finger, considered it for a moment and splashed a little more into the glass.