Page 2 of Oathbreaker

They disappear beneath the sleeves of his shirt, but start right back up again on his throat, spread over his face.

A new scar on his cheek, bisecting his eyebrow, an ugly red one disappearing into his hair.

Which is longer than I’ve ever seen it—months and months beyond the required military closely cropped cut.

“You’re hurt,” I whisper, worry rippling through me.

“I’m okay,” he says, drawing to a halt, close enough that I can see that for the lie it is.

Agony clings to the edges of his expression, shadows his eyes, hangs off his far too skinny frame.

Hell, it seems a wonder that he’s standing at all.

Then I process that this man—the one we all thought was dead for five fucking years—is standing in front of me.

Swaying in front of me.

I reach for him. “I?—”

Before I can take his hand—or catch his shoulder to steady him—he’s moving, wrapping me in his arms, holding me tightly against him.

And for a second, my worry disappears.

For a second, I’m lost in the feeling of Colt holding me, of Colt being here, of Colt being alive.

“It’s so good to see you, baby,” he rasps.

My lungs hitch. “I-I’ve missed you so much. We all have.”

“Damn right you have,” he quips, cocky entering his tone full-on.

Which is the moment that all of those good feelings turning my insides to goo go by the wayside, drifting away right alongside the worry.

Yes, his arms around me feel good, feel right, feel exactly like I remember.

But the man hugging me is supposed to be dead.

D.E.A.D.

And yet, he’s standing here, holding me, arms wrapped tightly around me, fingers drifting down toward my ass?—

Drifting over the curve of my ass.

“Little Briar Dash is all grown up,” he teases, cupping the curve—which is, yes, larger than the last time he saw me. A product of life and pregnancy and five long years.

I choke—on my shock, my hurt…

My anger.

So, when he pulls back slightly and tugs at a lock of my hair, smiling The Smile at me, cockiness all up in his face, I don’t melt like I once did.

I yank myself out of his hold. “You’re supposed to be dead,” I accuse.

He leans slightly to the side and pauses, pain spreading through his expression, but clearly, his wicked sense of humor is intact because he says, “I’d have to be dead to not appreciate that ass.”

“Colt,” I grind out.

He winks, eyes drifting to my chest. “And those breasts.” A low groan. “Christ, Briar, but you’re fucking gorgeous.”