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
