Bring Me to Life

by Kira Sinclair

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “Were you hit?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Tatum nodded, accepting the small trill of relief washing through her.

  “But you’re not.” The boy nodded to her leg.

  “It’s nothing. These jeans were ready for the trash bin anyway.”

  Will gave her a strange look, but didn’t argue.

  Flashes of pink, gold and green sparks showered several feet away, but she hadn’t heard any more rockets going off. Gingerly pushing up to a crouch, Tatum looked around, but all she could see were the ghosts of fireworks past bursting across her vision.

  Deciding the coast was clear enough, she said, “Stay here,” to Will and then headed farther down the alley.

  Smoke choked the already cramped space, obscuring her vision more than the cloud-covered night. Up ahead, she heard a yelp and a gurgle. Her heart hitched in her chest and her stomach dropped to her toes.

  Please don’t let one of the boys be seriously hurt.

  Racing through the fog, Tatum skidded to a halt. Instead of what she’d expected—to find a boy crumpled on the ground nursing a face that had been burned off, which would have been horrific—what she found was ten times worse.

  Evan’s hands were wrapped around two skinny throats. The boys’ backs were pressed against a wooden fence, the slats groaning beneath the force of their combined weight. Tatum was afraid the whole thing would collapse behind them.

  Her husband was at least a foot and a half taller than both boys and almost double their width. From her vantage point behind them, Tatum might have missed the second boy, if she hadn’t noticed Evan’s hands clamped around both throats.

  He was leaning into them, pinning them beneath his heavily muscled body.

  Their eyes bugged out, round with fear. Their toes barely touched the ground, scrabbling around to try and find better purchase to ease the pressure of his palm against their windpipes.

  Evan growled at them. Tatum heard the even cadence of his voice, but couldn’t understand the words.

  Jesus, this wasn’t good.

  Racing up to them, Tatum tried to wedge herself between Evan and the boys, but there wasn’t enough room. She settled for clamping a fist tight around Evan’s wrist.

  “Let them go,” she said in a cool, commanding tone.

  Without sparing her a glance, he said, “No.”

  “Evan, look at me.” The words were a plea, but she tried to keep them from sounding that way. That weakness wouldn’t help anyone right now.

  When he didn’t respond, she said it again, this time adding a whip to her voice. “Look. At. Me.”

  Slowly, his head swiveled, his gaze colliding with hers.

  Tatum sucked in a sharp breath, but tried to keep any other reaction from her face.

  Everything about him was hard, his mouth, jaw, eyes. They were...dead wasn’t the right word, but as damn close as they could get. Almost as if he’d been given a death sentence long ago and was merely living out the remainder of his time.

  This person wasn’t the man she’d fallen in love with and married.

  This was the stranger who’d been lurking beneath the surface since he’d returned.

  Ruthless, deadly, dangerous, vicious.

  Swallowing, Tatum tried to push those thoughts from her head.

  “Let them go, Evan. They did something stupid, but you know this isn’t right.” She tipped her head sideways to where he held them immobilized.

  “You could have been hurt.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Her calf chose that moment to throb unbearably, but Tatum ignored it. Nothing a little ointment and bandages couldn’t fix so she didn’t feel bad for the lie. Really, it wasn’t one.

  “Why the hell did you run out here, Tatum? You had no idea what kind of danger you were dashing headlong into.”

  Cutting her eyes sideways, Tatum noticed his hold on the boys had eased up. One of them moved to squirm, meaning to take advantage of the slack, but Tatum shook her head.

  “I wasn’t in danger, Evan. I thought someone was hurt. I wanted to help.”

  He studied her. The harsh angles that had sharpened his features eased, giving her a glimpse of the man she loved.

  With the same sudden shock of the fireworks going off, Evan dropped his hold on the boys and transferred it to her.

  His arms were hard bands around her middle. He crushed her to him, forcing out what little breath she had left.

  Gazing over his shoulder, she watched the boys—Ben Dorian and Gil Southern—crumple to the ground. They both stared up at her, their gazes a mix of relief, regret and pure fear.

  “Why don’t you boys go on home,” she suggested in as soft a voice as she could manage.

  It was all the urging they needed. Their legs were unsteady, but somehow managed to hold them up as they bolted away.

  She’d have to make a few phone calls tonight. Even if she felt sympathy for the boys, their parents needed to know what happened. And she wasn’t only talking about the fireworks.

  The minute the boys were clear, her own battered body gave out. Beneath the weight of Evan’s embrace, she sagged, but she didn’t hit the ground.

  For the first time she noticed a knot of people who’d gathered at the far end of the alley. But Evan didn’t give her a chance to talk to them before he scooped her into his arms, somehow managing to slam her injured leg against the hard bone of his hip. A mangled cry of pain slipped through her lips and he cursed.

  Gentling his hold, he shifted her higher. The pain she’d been ignoring swirled up and threatened to pull her down. The back door of Petals stood wide open, light spilling out into the cool night. Evan didn’t bother to close it behind them as he strode through. Instead, he plopped her rear on top of her worktable, easing her back until she was stretched out on top of it.

  A low, rumbling growl rolled through his throat when he got his first good look at her leg.

  His accusing gaze cut up to her. “Not hurt, huh?”

  “Not really,” she said, but she could hear the shudder of pain in her words.

  He scowled, grasped the blackened hole on her jeans and pulled. With a loud rip the material tore straight down to the thick band at the hem.

  With heavy hands on her shoulders, Evan gave her no choice but to lie back and roll onto her hip, allowing him full access to the angry burn running along the side of her leg.

  Tatum twisted, trying to see, but his body blocked her.

  “Where’s your first-aid kit?”

  Tatum pointed to a cupboard in the corner where she kept supplies that she rarely used. Giving her a sharp look, Evan strode away, stopping to grab several towels from the stack she kept handy to clean up spills. Going to the sink, he ran one under the water, wringing it out before gingerly placing the towel on her leg.

  “This should help cool it off.”

  The contact stung like hell, but he was right; almost immediately the heat radiating up and down her leg subsided.

  He rummaged in the first-aid kit and pulled out a roll of gauze.

  “There should be some antibiotic ointment in there,” she said.

  Without looking up at her, he shook his head. “Not supposed to put ointment on a burn.”

  She wasn’t sure about that, but wasn’t about to argue with him. Not right this minute, anyway. Of the two of them, only one had received battlefield medical training, and it wasn’t her.

  He checked her compress, went to the sink, soaked another towel and changed it. After that was finished, he simply stood next to her, staring down at his hands folded together on the table beside her hip.

  Tatum placed her hand over his. He didn’t move or acknowledge her touch at all, which only made panic bubble deep inside her chest.

  “Evan, talk to me,” she whispered. “What happened in Colombia? No more half-truths or evasions. I need to know. Not for me, but for you.”

  * * *

  TATUM’S WORDS SPUN through his mind
, mixing with the memories that threatened to consume him. Not just from his time in Colombia, but from tonight.

  The looks on those boys’ faces...

  Dread rolled up the back of his throat, threatening to cut off his air supply.

  They were teenagers, and he’d held them up by their necks. He could have easily squeezed the life out of them. Had felt his fingers flex and tighten with instinct—kill or be killed.

  He wasn’t entirely certain he could have stopped if Tatum hadn’t tried to wedge herself between them. Her scent, her voice, her touch had pulled him back from the brink.

  But she wouldn’t always be there.

  And if he couldn’t control himself, did he deserve to ask her to be?

  The memory of waking up that first night with her pinned beneath him joined the toxic mix inside his head.

  He was barbaric, driven by the most animalistic urges. He was dangerous to anyone who got close, maybe Tatum in particular.

  One thing he knew was that if anything ever happened to her he’d absolutely fall apart. Especially if he was the cause of her injury.

  Maybe he really did need to take Lock’s advice and talk to someone. But right now his first priority was taking care of Tatum.

  Brushing his fingers softly over the compress covering her leg, Evan tried to swallow the sick sensation churning in his stomach. Hell, he was struggling right now and all she had was a fairly small second-degree burn.

  He didn’t deserve her. That was the bottom line. And maybe it was time for her to realize that, too.

  Taking off the compress, he lifted her leg, bending it at the knee so he would have space to wrap the gauze around her calf. This would be easier if he could keep his hands busy.

  “You want to know what happened?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  “Yes.” Her answer was simple, but there was no way she could know what she was really asking for. Hell, he’d lived it and he didn’t want those memories anymore.

  “I don’t think you do, Tatum.”

  Grasping his hands, she stopped him mid twist. He shook his head, realizing he’d wound over half the roll of gauze around her leg. With a grunt, he dropped the rest of it to the table and watched it roll to the floor, leaving a tail of white in its wake.

  She squeezed, probably trying to give him support or encouragement. It wouldn’t be enough.

  Slowly, Evan’s gaze traveled the length of her gorgeous legs. Legs that just last night had been wrapped tight around his waist while he was buried deep inside her body. If he’d known it was going to be the last time, he would have...savored.

  Had she had similar thoughts after they told her he was dead?

  Swallowing a sudden lump in his throat, he forced his gaze to continue up, over her thighs and hips. Waist and chest. The smooth column of her throat. Those perfect, pouting lips that could pour out such wit and sarcasm even as they blinded with the brightest smile.

  He wanted to linger there. To lean in and kiss her so hard they’d both remember the taste and feel forever. But he didn’t. Instead, he forced himself to continue up to her emerald eyes.

  Tonight they weren’t quite as bright as he liked to see them. She couldn’t hide the residual, dulling edge of pain, not from her wound, but the memory of losing him. Or the fear. He knew she didn’t want him to see, but he could.

  He’d always been able to see her, maybe especially the things she tried to hide from the world behind a facade of bravado and strength.

  It hurt that he was the cause, when he’d promised her a long time ago he’d be the one to protect and support her.

  “Trust me,” she murmured.

  “Always,” he answered without hesitation. “You’re not the problem here, Tatum.”

  He didn’t have to finish for her to understand. She knew what he meant, what he couldn’t bring himself to say.

  “Then let me trust you.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  She shook her head, her eyes taking on a fierce glitter he recognized all too well. She was gearing up to take on the world. Or at least his demons.

  “Dammit, Evan. You can’t walk back into my life, blow it apart, beg me to let you in and then hold me at arm’s length. That isn’t a life or a relationship. It isn’t enough. Before, it might have been. But it isn’t anymore.”

  She was right. He knew it, and yet...

  “Fine,” he said. “You want to know that I killed a man? Several men? That I held a gun to a guy’s temple and pulled the trigger? Watched his blood and brains splatter on the wall? He was a husband and a father.

  “Or that I put drugs in the hands of children. Knowing they’d be selling to other kids. Getting people hooked. Ruining their lives before they had a chance to really live. Probably condemning them to an early grave before they hit sixteen.

  “That I watched as men beat their women and couldn’t do anything to stop it, not without blowing the entire operation? That I had to play God and choose whose life was worth saving and who we could afford to lose as a casualty in a war the rest of the world had no idea we were waging?”

  Evan heard his voice crack, but not even that could stop the flow of words once they’d started. It was as if every sin he’d ever committed had been bottled up inside and suddenly freed. They erupted like rotten champagne, spewing sewage over everything.

  “Every night, for three years, I slept with a gun beneath my pillow, safety off and my finger on the trigger. My other hand was inches away from the knife strapped to my thigh. I didn’t get a single moment of rest.”

  Evan peered down at his hands. In a small corner of his head, he registered that they were shaking, but the vision didn’t compute. He didn’t feel the tremble. How could he, when his body was completely numb? Disconnected.

  Until she touched him.

  Somewhere along the way, his legs must have given out. Or maybe he decided to sit down. Either way, his ass was on the floor and his back was pressed against the cabinets that ran beneath the sink.

  And she was sprawled right beside him.

  She shouldn’t be down here, in the muck with him.

  Evan tried to grasp her arms, pull them both up off the floor, but he couldn’t do it. Not only were his arms and legs less than cooperative, but so was Tatum. She wouldn’t budge.

  In fact, she weighed him down, crawling right up into his lap.

  The warmth of her body pressed against him. For a second, he reveled in the power of it. The cleansing heat of her. It would be so easy to let her give that to him.

  But it was wrong. This was wrong. She shouldn’t be this close to him.

  Evan tried to shove her off, but that didn’t work. Not when she wound her arms around his shoulders and simply hung on.

  Burying her face in the crook of his neck, she pressed cool lips on his skin. Over and over again, her mouth touched anything she could reach. There wasn’t heat, at least not the conflagration that usually consumed them. The warmth that blazed wherever she touched was purer. Soothing. Understanding. Accepting.

  Even after everything he’d just told her.

  And that’s what gave him the strength to finally push her away.

  Or at least try.

  He got them both standing. He reached behind his head and peeled her fingers away. Unfortunately, the moment he got one hand off, the other seemed to reattach—to his waistband, over his biceps or around his hip. It didn’t matter what he did, she was like a starfish, suction-cupped to his body, refusing to let go.

  Finally frustrated beyond reason, Evan roared, “Didn’t you hear a word I said?”

  “Yes. Every one.”

  Leaning into him, she plastered her body against his, bringing them together, from shoulders to knees.

  He realized the trembling filling his limbs wasn’t entirely his. Tatum shook, too, fine tremors racking her from head to toe.

  “And most of the ones you didn’t say. You aren’t a monster, Evan. You couldn’t be.”

  Oh, how wrong she was. �
�I could. I am.”

  “No, you made tough decisions in a terrible situation. I’m sure the man you killed would have killed you, because you’ve never been the kind of man to hurt in cold blood, and I don’t believe anything—anything—could change that. Change you.”

  “I did change, Tatum. I’m a different man than the one who left you three years ago.”

  Her soft palms bracketed his face, forcing him to look at her, stare into her soul. And bare his own. But she already saw his fears and doubts. What else was there left to hide?

  “Yes, you are different. Maybe you’re a little harder. Your muscles certainly are,” she said, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

  Was she making a joke? Now? Evan was bewildered and...strangely proud. Tatum was strong, always had been. It wasn’t often he was surprised, but she’d just managed to do it.

  “But the core of the man you are, the slightly awkward teenager I fell in love with, the honorable soldier he grew into and the tenacious, strong husband who always protected me and anyone else who needed it...that hasn’t changed. And never will.”

  God, for the first time since the words began spewing from his mouth, Evan really looked at Tatum. He’d been afraid to, certain that what he was telling her would drive any hope of her loving him again straight into the ground.

  But it wasn’t true.

  The love she’d always given freely, but had been suppressing since his return, was finally back on display.

  How was that possible?

  Evan didn’t know and mostly didn’t care.

  She wasn’t pushing him away. In fact, she was actively trying to draw him closer. And it wasn’t pity or obligation, which he never would have accepted.

  It was so much more.

  A weight that he’d been carrying around for three long years slipped from his shoulders. The relief was...exquisite and a little unnerving. He’d gotten so used to shouldering it.

  “I was so afraid, Tatum. Afraid that I wouldn’t be able to shed the skin I’d been wearing. That it had become a part of me, especially the things I hated.”

  “Never,” she said, the single word reminding him of a mother lion protecting her cubs—territorial and dangerous in her own right.