“It’s too late for that. You should’ve fought when there was still something left to fight for,” I tell him, my anger rising. I hate that he can still make me feel regret and sadness and heartbreak. I hate that I can’t be cool and calm and unaffected. I don’t know what’s showing on my face, but my insides are a mess. They were the instant I laid eyes on him, and they will be for hours after he’s gone. And as long as he continues to be a presence in my life—whether through visits or gifts or messages or whatever—I’ll never be able to heal enough, to make myself strong enough to put him behind me.
“You know, when I was in Delta Five—that’s the Special Forces team that I was a part of—they used to call me the brave one. I was always the first one in, always the one rolling, balls out, into our mission. I wasn’t afraid to die or get shot or get stabbed or burned or whatever. I knew I could handle whatever came my way, even death. My parents had bred that into me. To go after what I want, to be fearless and bold. And I always did. I was never afraid of losing. Until now. Until you. I’m brave enough to face knives and guns, death and torture, discovery and capture, and the only thing I’ve ever known that scares the living shit out of me is losing you.”
When I open my mouth to stop him, he keeps going, giving me no chance to speak.
“I know that might not mean much to you, but it means everything to me. I screwed up. I admit it. But I never saw you coming. I never thought I’d meet someone like you, someone who could bring me to my knees with a look or a touch. I wasn’t prepared. But now I am. Now I am.”
My muscles are shivering, my insides quaking. My mind is swirling with emotions and words, choices and consequences. Can I trust him? My heart tells me that I can, but it’s led me astray before.
I want to trust him. I want to believe his words. More than I ever thought I could want anything. Except the man himself.
But I never saw you coming. I never thought I’d meet someone like you, someone who could bring me to my knees with a look or a touch. I wasn’t prepared. But now I am.
My heart taps frantically against my ribs, words perched delicately on the tip of my tongue, but before I can respond, a voice sounds from over my right shoulder.
“Won’t he take ‘no’ for an answer, Weatherly?” Michael asks in a haughty voice. I don’t have to turn around to know that he’s wearing a self-satisfied smile. He was just waiting for the day when he could best Tag.
Tag’s eyes, which had clicked to a stop over my head, drop from Michael back down to me. They’ve gone from warm, soft gray to hard, icy steel. “What the hell is he doing here?” His words are clipped. His voice is low. His demeanor is as ominous as a storm cloud.
Again, before I can answer, Michael speaks up, coming to stand close at my back. “I came to bring her divorce papers. Unlike you, I’m welcome here because I haven’t been deceiving her all this time.”
“Michael, please,” I shoot back over my shoulder in irritation. He’s only making a difficult situation even more so.
“Don’t pretend like you’ve got Weatherly’s best interests at heart, you greedy bastard. At least I’m in love with her and not trying to make her a miserable trophy wife with a powerful father and a big bank account.”
“I can see why she’s had enough of you and your lies. As it is, it’ll take me months to make her forget your filthy touch, but I assure you, I’m just the man for the job.”
I don’t know what Michael is doing behind my back; I only know that I don’t see the explosion until it happens. Suddenly I’m pushed rather gently to the side and Tag is roaring past me, grabbing Michael by the front of his crisp, white, four-hundred-dollar shirt and hauling him up against the wall hard enough to make plaster sprinkle from the ceiling and pepper my hardwoods.
“If you so much as lay a finger on her, so help me God, I’ll burn your life to the ground and then throw you in the fire.” Tag’s chest is heaving. “And if you think I’m bluffing, try me. If you think I’m afraid of you, try me. Try me. Please. I’m begging you. I know more about killing people and hiding it than you know about expensive cigars and cheap whores.”
I’m quietly holding my breath, uncertain how to respond to this, when Tag surprises me by planting his fist in Michael’s stomach. I hear the sickening thud ring through the room. I hear Michael’s garbled grunt when he bends forward and then crumples to his knees. Tag, as if he has to finish making his point, puts his foot on the side of Michael’s face and pushes until Michael falls over, curled on the floor in the fetal position.