Bring Me To Life

“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 frowned. “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.

Her body responded, an old habit, as she bounded up from the bed. Her naked feet hit the cold hardwood floor, but she barely registered the winter chill seeping into her.

It wasn’t the first time she’d woken to Evan’s nightmares. He’d been having them as long as she knew him, leftovers from a childhood that had been less than ideal. Their crappy history was something they’d shared.

But as she ran into the room next door, one look was all she needed to realize this was something more.

He wasn’t thrashing around under the covers, eyes closed and ragged sounds falling through half-parted lips.

Evan’s gorgeous hazel eyes, more brown than green, were wide open, but completely unfocused. He crouched in the corner of the room, his back pressed tight against the wall. If she hadn’t heard the unintelligible words pouring from his mouth in harsh whispers, she might not have seen him in the shadows. He’d found the darkest spot in the room, and with his black hair, tanned skin and stubble-covered jaw, he nearly blended in. She could just make out the heavy lines of the tattoos covering his chest and ribs in the gloom.

Tatum’s heart clenched at the sight of him. It was wrong to see such a strong, noble man hunkered down in the corner as if defending his very life.

Uncertainty froze her limbs. The harsh sound of his breathing finally galvanized her into motion. She had to do something.

With measured steps, she moved closer, her hands lifted up, palms out to show she meant no harm.

“Evan,” she said cautiously. “Sweetheart.” The word she hadn’t said for so long felt foreign in her mouth. “You’re fine. You’re safe.”

Stopping several feet away, Tatum crouched in front of him, hoping to catch his gaze. But when she did, she realized he was still...asleep. Or caught up in whatever nightmare had ripped into him. Definitely not focused on the here and now.

She shifted, and the world exploded. Or at least it felt that way.

Suddenly, she was on her back, her head cracking against the hard floor, her left shoulder colliding with the edge of the dresser. And all of Evan’s weight drove against her, pushing oxygen from her body.

She let out a soft cry with whatever breath she had left.

His hands dug into her muscles, pinning her in place. Leaning down, he growled into her ear. She realized he wasn’t speaking gibberish, but another language she didn’t understand.

She didn’t need to know the words to realize whatever he was saying wasn’t nice. His menacing tone was more than enough.

The pain that had exploded through her body on impact faded. Tears sprang to her eyes, not from that, but from the realization that there was so much she didn’t know...or understand. Gripping his waist, for the first time in three years, Tatum felt the soft slide of his skin against her fingertips. Need, lust and love exploded through her, a potent combination she didn’t have room for right now.

Pushing her body’s reaction away, she smoothed her hands up his ribs, over his chest to cup his face.

“Evan,” she whispered, pulling him down even as she rose to brush her lips across his mouth in a butterfly kiss.

What she’d meant to be something soothing quickly burst into fully involved flame.

His mouth devoured hers, all hunger and heat and demand. She was helpless to fight off her response to him. His wide palms settled, one at her hip, the other at the curve of her neck, arching her closer. He immobilized her beneath him, the hard length of his body holding her prisoner.

Not that she wanted free. She wanted more. Even as her brain screamed at her to stop, her body simply melted, turning gooey as a marshmallow introduced to heat.

His tongue swept into her mouth, tangling, stroking, teasing. He crowded against her, giving her no place to go, nothing to counter the drowning need.

God, she’d missed this. Missed him. So damn much. No man had ever made her feel the way Evan did. Desired. Alive. Protected. Cherished.

The combination was addictive. And always had been.

But she wasn’t a seventeen-year-old kid anymore.

His hips, clad in loose-fitting sweats, slid against hers, pumping in a slow and deliberate way that caused liquid heat to pool in the center of her body. The length of his erection, caught between them, ground into her, making her own hips pulse in quick, pleading jerks.

What was wrong with her? Where had her resolve gone? At the first touch of his strong body against hers, she was crumbling like an ancient ruin.

Tatum knew the exact moment Evan came back to himself. Pressed so closely together, she felt the jolt of awareness as it slammed into him.

Before she could blink, he ripped away from her. His back collided with the wall, the room practically shaking from the impact. From her vantage point on the floor, she could see long red welts forming across his skin where her nails had torn through him. He didn’t seem to notice the pain that must have come with the scratches.

Horrified, he stared at her for several seconds before finally sliding down the wall. Burying his face in two wide, rough palms, he whispered, “Jesus.”

The sound of the single, broken word sent regret, pain and fear tumbling through her. What the hell had he lived through?

Finally looking up, he peered at her out of hard, dead eyes that did more to scare her than being flung unceremoniously onto her back. “Leave. Now, Tatum.”

And that pissed her off.

“No, Evan. This is my house, my guest room. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the second time tonight, his big body exploded outward in a flurry of movement and muscle. He tore away from the wall, stalking toward her with a menace that was clearly meant to intimidate. And it had probably been very effective on his enemies, but Tatum knew Evan. Possibly better than he knew himself.

Or she used to.

But she trusted her instincts, which were telling her he’d hurt himself before he’d ever hurt her.

At least, physically.

She swallowed. The confidence she’d been shoring up wavered as he got closer. Reaching down, he wrapped heavy hands around her biceps and pulled her up from the floor. His hold didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t soft and easy, either.

He set her on her feet, but didn’t back away. Instead, he continued to press into her personal space, leaving her off-kilter in the way only Evan could.

“Don’t ever do that again. I could have seriously injured you,” he said, his voice full of gravel and self-recrimination.

“You didn’t.”

He snorted, the sound grating. Before she could stop him, his hands speared into her hair, tumbling the strands from the messy knot she’d piled at the crown of her head. He rubbed around the curve of her skull, giving her an “I told you so” look when she couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath as he found a tender spot.

But he didn’t stop there. Spinning her, he pushed the thin strap on the gown she’d worn to bed off her shoulder and down her arm. Her skin was exposed and she was half-naked before she realized what he was doing.

Cold air brushed across her bared breast and her nipple tightened. Her knees buckled. Why wouldn’t they? Her body was still burning from that damn kiss. If he hadn’t been holding on to her waist, she probably would have collapsed to the floor again.

But Evan was too busy at her shoulder to notice.

Dragging in a breath, Tatum tried to steady her response, get control of her body.

He might have torn at her clothes like a madman, but his touch was gossamer soft and utterly careful. She could barely feel the roughened pads of his fingertips as they smoothed across her shoulder, down the ridge of her scapula and onto the first swell of her ribs.

Goose bumps erupted across her skin. Her nervous system hadn’t gotten the memo that this wasn’t supposed to be a seduction.

He probed, paying special attention to one area that smarted.

Tatum closed her eyes at the unbelievable sensation of him touching her. That kiss, he hadn’t been all there. Tatum knew he’d still been cloudy from whatever nightmare had gripped him and not completely in control of his actions.

He was definitely clearheaded now.

How many times over the last few years had she fantasized about this exact thing? Wished, prayed, begged for one more night with him? A night of caresses and kisses and feeling him move deep inside her.

One more night of the connection she’d only ever found with him.

She’d finally gotten her wish, but she was afraid it was three years too late.

“I don’t think anything’s seriously damaged,” he said, “but you’re going to have a couple of nasty bruises in the morning.”

Crossing an arm to hide her chest, Tatum craned her neck so she could see him. He stared at her shoulder, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d bared her breast without thinking.

Well, if that didn’t burst a girl’s bubble, Tatum wasn’t certain what would.

“It’s fine. I won’t break. I’m tougher than I look.”

His gaze dragged up to hers. He was so close there was no way she could miss the expressions swirling through his haunted eyes—regret, anger, acceptance and, finally, desire.

That single flare of heat blasted through her body, scorching her along the way.

Okay, he did still want her.

Tatum wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

His touch changed, no longer assessing, but with an edge of worship that would be hard for any woman to ignore. As if he’d never felt anything better than the texture of her skin. As if he could stand there, doing nothing but touch her for hours and be perfectly content. As if he couldn’t get enough.

Tatum’s pulse fluttered. Her lips parted and she swiped her tongue across the suddenly dry surface.

Evan’s gaze traveled down her body, taking in the disheveled state of her gown. His fingers dragged across the tiny strap now hanging below her elbow.

She wanted him to take it off. Instead, he gently tugged it back into place. His index finger glided over the ridge of material from her back, over her shoulder and down onto her chest. Her body arched, an involuntary motion that tried to get him close to the aching tip of her breast. But he ignored the offer.

Instead, he stepped back, the chill of the winter night blasting through her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and then darted from the room, snatching up the shirt he’d draped across a chair.

The reverberation of her front door slamming shut had barely faded before the angry roar of his bike kicked up outside.

Tatum swayed in the middle of her guest bedroom, heart pounding, pulse thrumming, pain, fear, hope and need mixing into a toxic sludge in her belly as she listened to the sound of him leaving.

Would he be back?

Did she want him to come back?

Or would it be better for both of them if he just...disappeared and left her to the life she’d built without him?

* * *

HE COULDN’T REMEMBER the dream, not that it really mattered. Take your pick, he had several, all running with the same theme—blood, nasty behavior and killer choices. Holding a gun to a man’s head and trying desperately to figure out how to keep him alive without blowing his own cover and getting himself killed in the process. Handing drugs to a ten-year-old kid who was just trying to make enough money to care for his mom and sisters in the only way he knew how, when what Evan had really wanted to do was whisk him away from the dangerous life before he got in too deep.

But he hadn’t been able to save the boy. Or his fellow soldiers. He’d watched them all die and had been given one chance for survival.

What really bothered him about tonight was that he could have seriously hurt Tatum. Easily. And it wouldn’t have been anything he hadn’t already done, while defending himself against the scum he’d been wallowing with for the last three years. He’d quickly moved up the ranks of the cartel, which had made walking that thin line between right and wrong more difficult—and the target on his back even bigger.

It was mere luck that had prevented Tatum from getting a concussion, a knife to the throat or a bullet in the brain. In Colombia, Evan had slept with a gun under his pillow, finger already lodged on the trigger, and a knife strapped to his thigh. Just in case.

Days earlier, he had, with difficulty, given up the knife and gun—the two things that had made him feel safe in an environment he had little control over. But he had realized part of coming home was assimilating back into the real world. He no longer lived in the dirty, depraved underworld.

But he’d been immersed in it for so long he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the stench off his skin.

Revving his bike, Evan pushed it a little harder, thrilling to the purr of the powerful motor between his thighs. The sensation did little to assuage the hard-on he’d been sporting since the moment Tatum had walked out of that damn church.

He wanted her. Needed her. With a desperation that was almost as alarming as coming to with her pinned beneath his body, his fingers digging into her tender flesh while he practically violated her.

Hell, he’d been grinding against her like a teenager intent on dry-humping his way to heaven. And kissing her so hard he was surprised the inside of her mouth wasn’t shredded.

Despite the chilly temperatures, a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. God, one night back with her and he’d almost hurt her. Maybe his CO was right and he should have taken some more time to decompress before returning.

But after three, long, miserable years, it had seemed as though seeing her, touching her, feeling her was the only thing that could convince him the nightmare was finally over.

And that there was still a square inch of his soul that hadn’t rotted away with the rest beneath the weight of the things he’d done to survive and complete the mission.

Tatum was holding back. He could feel the walls she put up between them. Walls that had never been there before. But he supposed he couldn’t blame her.

The problem was, he wasn’t entirely certain how to rip them down...at least not without ripping her, too. But he would figure it out. He had to. He needed her to survive.

With the same tenacity and will that had kept him alive when everyone around him was dying, he would find a way to get what he wanted. A way back into her life, her heart and her bed, although he was hoping not necessarily in that order.

The cell phone at his hip buzzed. It was late, or early depending on your definition, and only a handful of people knew his number—none of whom he actually wanted to talk to. But the fact that they were bothering him at all couldn’t be good, especially at this hour.

Pulling over into a small park, Evan kicked out the stand and flung his leg over the chrome and black monster. Moonlight poured across the empty slide and silent merry-go-round. The chains on the swings creaked as a winter breeze blew them gently back and forth, like the ghosts of children past were getting one last ride.

The sight was eerie, but somehow also hopeful. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a playground. And there was no doubt in his mind that in just a few hours this one would be full of laughing, happy children despite the bleak weather.

His phone had stopped vibrating before he could answer, but he knew it would probably start up again any second. Stalking across the park, Evan plopped down into one of the swings and waited.

And he wasn’t wrong. The phone rattled against his hip. He didn’t bother to look at the display before answering, “Huntley.”

“Buddy,” came the low, gruff reply. “Just wanted to see how your first night back in the real world went.”

There was a time in Evan’s life when Locklyn Granger had been a buddy. They’d trained together, served together, had each other’s backs on more occasions than Evan could count. They’d shared even more beers and had a few rambunctious stories—Locklyn’s not his. Evan was always the observer.

But it was difficult to find the same easy camaraderie they’d shared before. It wasn’t that Evan didn’t trust him anymore...it was that he didn’t trust anyone. Too many years of being alone and constantly circled by angry, hungry wolves looking for a reason to drag him down.

It didn’t help that the man was obviously lying to him.

“So you called at—” Evan rolled his wrist to look at the expensive multitasking watch that also happened to tell time “—one-thirty in the morning to see how my day went? I call bullshit, Lock. What’s really going on?”

The heavy sigh at the other end of the line didn’t do anything to help temper the sudden kick of adrenaline through Evan’s heart.

“Nothing. Probably nothing. Just some chatter that came through some reputable channels. Nothing specific or actionable.”

“But enough for you to pick up the phone and wake me up if I’d been asleep.”

Lock snorted, the sound hard and sharp. “Please. I’ve been there, man. Days after returning from what you went through, you’re gonna be lucky to get three hours in a row. Chances were good you’d be awake.”

He wasn’t wrong. And it should have helped center Evan to realize he wasn’t the only guy who’d ever suffered ill effects from a mission.

But it didn’t.

As far as he was aware, Locklyn hadn’t been read in on all the details, so the man had no freakin’ clue what Evan had been through the last three years. And he had no intention of changing that status quo.