“No,” I breathe.
My heart stutters.
My brain short-circuits.
“W-what?”
She’s standing there like she never left.
Like three years didn’t pass.
Like three years didn’t carve me hollow and leave me to fill in the gaps with work and whiskey and rage.
Like she didn’t disappear and take half my goddamn soul with her.
Esme.
My gaze drags over her before I can stop it, and that’s its own kind of punishment.
Same soft curves.
Same stubborn little chin.
Same thick dark hair, though it’s even longer now, looser, wilder around her shoulders and back.
Same face that used to turn toward me in bed like I was something sacred.
Only now?
There’s steel in her.
A hard edge where softness used to live.
And something else, too.
Weariness, maybe.
Or hurt.
Or maybe I’m just seeing things I want to see.
Fuck.
“What the hell is this?” I snap, my voice rough and low and way more affected than I want anyone here to hear.
Sawyer doesn’t answer right away. He just jerks his chin toward her.
“She says she’s here for you. That she’s your wife.”
Yeah. No shit.
“Ex-wife,” I growl.
I take another step toward the porch, my whole body going rigid, my jaw so tight I can feel my molars grind.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
Not hello.
