Bring Me to Life

by Kira Sinclair

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.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he took in Tatum, standing exactly where she’d been moments before, feet glued to the floor, drink untouched, wide eyes blank but watchful, trained straight on him.

  “I shouldn’t even be telling you this. The mission is still classified.”


  “The Army can kiss my ass.”

  “Ha,” he grunted. Tatum had always understood the reasons why he couldn’t share details of his job with her. She’d never pushed or complained. But he supposed, all things considered, some bitterness was to be expected.

  “To preserve the illusion that none of us on the team knew each other, we came into the organization at different times and through different avenues. I was pulled in off the streets as a low-level drug dealer who was looking to climb the ranks and be useful. Two more guys received an introduction from our informant. Another used the sister of a mid-level enforcer and a fifth came in as a ‘cousin’ of one of their mules. I was the first one in and more than a week ahead of the others.

  “The only time I encountered our informant was while I was under so he had no way of knowing I was part of the team. That’s the only thing that saved my life that night.”

  As much as he fought against the memories, just the mention of the events caused ugly images to swirl inside his brain. Evan started to combat them with the alcohol in his hand, but realized what he was doing with it halfway to his mouth and reversed direction, slamming the glass to the table instead.

  His skin crawled, not with bitterness and anger, but with frustration and restlessness. It was a familiar sensation, one he’d fought for three long, interminable years. How many nights had he lain in his crappy, filthy bed and fantasized about simply putting a bullet in several heads?

  It would have been so easy. No way in hell he’d have made it out of the compound alive, but at least he would have gotten vengeance for his brothers. But he wasn’t that man. Wouldn’t let himself become that man.

  Just as he hadn’t drowned out the nasty memories with alcohol...or the abundance of drugs that had been at his fingertips. It would have been a quick release and relief. But he hadn’t—although there were times when that resolve had been touch and go, the darkness yawning with the welcome invitation of reprieve.

  He just needed to finish it. Explain to Tatum what had happened and that he’d never wanted to leave her—to let her think he was dead—and then figure out how to rebuild the life they’d once had.

  Before he could get the words out, the ring of her doorbell cut him off. Tatum jumped, a tiny sound of surprise falling from her open lips. That moment of vulnerability didn’t last long, though. Her jaw snapped shut.

  An unhappy sigh blasted through her rigid lips, fluttering the fringe of her bangs. They were new. He liked them. They made her look a little more innocent than he knew she really was.

  Setting her untouched glass onto a table, Tatum cut him a look before heading to the front door. He had no idea what that look was supposed to convey. Was she angry at him for the interruption?

  Before she’d gotten the door open more than an inch, it was snatched out of her hands and forced inward. Obviously, neither of them had expected that reaction. Tatum jumped backward with a yelp. Evan reached to the small of his back for a firearm that wasn’t where it should be and cursed. He was already halfway across the room, ready to yank her behind the protective wall of his body when the high-pitched sound of several female voices hit his ears.

  “Ohmygod, Tatum, are you okay? Willow told us what happened outside the church. We texted to see if you needed anything.”

  “We were going to wait until morning to come by, but when you didn’t respond...”

  “We got worried...”

  The women ran over each other, one sentence blending seamlessly into the next as if they were one person instead of three speaking.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell us you were married? I wouldn’t have tried so hard to set you up with my cousin Matt.”

  “Because that’s why you should have kept Matt away from her, not because he’s a pretentious jerk.”

  The three women rushed inside Tatum’s house. They were all clad in the same dress she’d been wearing not an hour ago. A blonde with amazing curves reached for Tatum, setting hands on her shoulders and peering intently into her eyes. “Seriously, are you okay?”

  The tall, thin brunette she’d been with earlier reached around them both, running a hand softly down Tatum’s arm to grasp her hand. “What do you need?”

  The other woman pressed in tight, forming a protective knot of femininity with Tatum in the center. Evan fought the urge to wade through them all and pull her out. He didn’t know any of these people and didn’t like having them stand between him and his wife.

  Behind the commotion, two men in dark suits hovered. They moved slower, quietly closed the door and stood to the side, observing in a way that told him they were used to these kinds of female displays of excitement and solidarity. He saw acceptance tinged with exasperation and a little bafflement.

  None of the women had noticed him yet, but the men sized him up as soon as they walked in.

  With silent agreement, they scooted around the cluster of women to present a wall of male power that had his hands preemptively tightening into fists. Instinct drove him to counter with his own display, but something told him Tatum wouldn’t appreciate a testosterone-fueled show.

  Frustration kicked through his stomach, but he clamped down hard on it. Lots of practice at that.

  “I’m assuming you’re her husband,” the darker of the two men said softly. There was something about him that Evan recognized, appreciated. A dangerous edge that told him he could take care of his own if needed.

  The other guy was a bit bigger, but not by much. He seemed...softer wasn’t the right word because neither of them were teddy bears. He didn’t have quite the same edge as the other man, although Evan wouldn’t want to meet either of them in a dark alley alone.

  Not that he couldn’t take them—together if necessary.

  “Evan Huntley,” he said, stepping forward and offering his hand.

  Neither of them took it. They simply stared at him.

  The female chatter behind them screeched to a halt. Several pairs of eyes peered around the wall of masculinity, including Tatum’s wide, unhappy green eyes.

  “Oh shit,” one of the women breathed.

  “You’ve got that right,” another agreed.

  “Tatum never mentioned she had a husband,” the bigger guy said, his wide mouth pulled down into a deep frown.

  Evan realized what the man was fishing for was an explanation, but considering he hadn’t even given the whole thing to Tatum yet he wasn’t about to spill to a stranger—several strangers.

  “Willow said you were dead. Supposed to be dead.”

  An unhappy smile tugged at the edges of his lips. “Which would explain why Tatum never mentioned me.”

  The curvy blonde poked her head around the tall guy, laying a hand on his arm in a comfortable, possessive gesture that immediately told him they were together. “Not really.”

  He pinned his wife with a sharp gaze. “I’m sure she had her reasons for not telling you about her past.” All eyes swung around to her. Any other woman might have squirmed beneath the weight of that scrutiny, but not Tatum. She kept her expression bland and stared back, mouth shut and spine straight.

  Apparently realizing they weren’t getting anywhere with her, the focus quickly returned to him.

  He’d faced down terrorists, murderers, drug dealers and rapists—singly and in groups larger than this one. But for some reason, his palms began to sweat and a cold trickle of unease whispered down his spine.

  Not because he honestly thought they’d do him any harm, but because he was afraid their opinion could sway Tatum, and without knowing anything about them, he couldn’t begin to guess their response to the messy affair.

  Shaking her head, Tatum pushed between the two guys. “While I appreciate the chivalry act, I don’t need it. Willow, Lexi, can you please control your men?”

  The blonde snorted. “Fat chance.”

  Maybe it was time he offered something. “Let me assure everyone Tatum has nothing to fear from me. I’m not here to hurt her.”

  Willow frown
ed. “You already have.”

  3

  TATUM WAS EXHAUSTED, mentally and physically. It had taken quite a while to convince the cavalry she’d be fine with Evan and get them to finally leave. By then it was after midnight and all she wanted was a soft pair of pajamas and her warm bed.

  Yes, she still had questions—plenty of them—but just from the little he’d already told her, it was obvious she was going to need a clear head for the answers.

  It was awkward, setting Evan up in her guest bedroom, but no matter how he looked at her, she wasn’t letting him back in her bed. Certainly not until they talked. And probably not even then.

  He was different. Harder, colder, though she had seen flashes of the honorable, dedicated man she’d fallen in love with at seventeen underneath the new layers. Sighing, Tatum supposed she was different, as well. They were both evidence that a lot could happen in three years.

  Deciding their conversation was probably better saved for the morning when her brain would be less fuzzy, she’d convinced him to wait. The sharp set of his mouth had broadcast just how unhappy he’d been about her decision, but at least he hadn’t argued.

  Tatum slipped beneath the sheets, fully expecting to drop right to sleep. Exhaustion pulled at her muscles, but her brain wouldn’t shut up. Thoughts, possibilities and fears, spun like an EF-5 tornado, shredding her composure and leaving her just as devastated as any broken landscape.

  Maybe she should have just gotten it over with.

  Too late now. No doubt Evan was fast asleep. He’d always been the kind of guy who was out the moment his head hit a pillow, and that skill set had only become more pronounced when he had joined Special Ops.

  What was she going to do?

  She had no idea. Conflicting wants tore her apart—crawling beside him and wrapping her arms around his big, hard body just so she could assure herself he really was alive warred with yanking him up out of her guest bed and shoving him quickly out the front door.

  An hour later, Tatum was still staring at the pattern of shadows playing across her ceiling when a loud whimper crashed into the silent night.