Oathbreaker (Gamebreakers #5)

Chapter 1

One

Briar

“Colt!”

I can’t possibly be seeing what I’m seeing.

Colt died five years ago.

He died.

Hell, I’m standing right next to his headstone, his name engraved in the marble.

And yet…he’s walking out of the shadows. No—

He’s limping out of the shadows, slowly making his way toward me.

It’s that slow, pained gait that finally snaps me out of my shock, has me believing the improbability of what I’m seeing.

If this was a fantasy—and I’ve had plenty of them about Colt—he would be striding over the rolling hills, shirt unbuttoned, coat open and flowing, a la Mr. Darcy, searching for me, worried for me…

And declaring, “You must know…surely you must know it was all for you.”

But he’s not.

He’s maneuvered his way out from the shadows and into the moonlight, and while he’s moving steadily, it’s not the poignant ending of a romantic film.

Because he’s moving painfully.

So damned painfully.

“Colt,” I say again, staring in his direction, and I know he hears me this time because his gaze locks on to mine, mouth hitching up at one corner, giving me The Smile.

The one that had me falling in love with him the first time Dash brought him home from college break.

To give him a place to crash for a few weeks while school was out of session.

Because Colt’s family…

Well, suffice to say, for as much as my parents are involved in their own lives and not super interested in what my brother and I are doing with ours (and they’ve been that way from the moment we hit our teenaged years), Colt’s parents make ours look like Mom and Dad of the Year.

My heart warms at the memory because, God, Colt was such a fish out of water those first few days. Then he settled in, and I got to see his wicked sense of humor, that smile.

Add in a handsome package, a body a teenaged girl dreams of, and a sweet, protective streak a mile wide…

There was never anything for me to do except fall.

And I did it hard.

We close the distance between us, and I get my first good look at him.

“Oh, my God!” I gasp.

He looks terrible, and I don’t mean that in the whole he-didn’t-sleep-well-last-night sort of way.

I mean that he looks terrible—he’s skinnier than I’ve ever seen him, having lost well over thirty pounds, and he’s covered in cuts and bruises.

They line his arms, cut upon cut, some stitched up, some worse than that, I presume, since there are bandages covering them.

And the bruises.

God, the bruises.

They’re a rainbow of yellows and blues, of greens and purples and almost blacks.

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.”

My lungs freeze.

Then my temper snaps.

I step forward and slap him across the cheek, the crack sounding loudly through the air.

“How dare you?” I whisper, tears flooding my eyes, clinging to my lashes. “How dare you after all this time just show up and say that and—” My throat closes, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Y-you were dead and—”

He reaches for me.

But I’m already reaching for him, throwing my arms around his neck, launching myself at him, hugging him.

Too tightly, considering his grunt.

Or maybe that was the whole launching myself at him part.

Either way, he’s in my arms and he’s hugging me back, and the bevy of emotions—disbelief, confusion, shock, hurt, anger…and biggest, because of course it’s the biggest, is relief.

He’s here.

He’s alive.

After I finally let him go.

My lungs hitch and my eyes burn with tears all over again.

I have so many questions for him, so many answers I want to demand from him…but tonight, with feet on his grave, my arms around his neck, I just…can’t.

So, when he says, “I need to explain,” I shift out of his hold and shake my head.

“Not tonight,” I whisper.

He’s hurt and barely standing.

My mind is so fucking twisted up I can barely find his hand and lace our fingers together.

“But the guys,” he says. “And you. I—”

I squeeze his hand. “Colt,” I begin, starting to draw him toward my car, his exhaustion flowing off him and rippling through the air. “Please,” I say. “Please let’s not do this tonight.”

I lost him, this man I loved…

And he’s here.

I mourned him for years…

And he’s here.

I finally let him go…

And he’s here.

I can’t do this, can’t face this, can’t handle this.

Well, I can.

And I will.

Just…not tonight.

“But—”

“I’m not ready for this tonight.” I turn to him, eyes burning into his. “So, for me?” I whisper, watching his face change, his expression soften. “Please, just not now.”

His chest lifts and falls on a breath that has him wincing.

Then he tables the pain.

And nods.

Relief slides through me—Frankie and West and the past and the present and him being here now…

Not tonight.

Tomorrow, I’ll brace.

Tomorrow, I’ll be ready.

Tomorrow, I’ll face this.

But tonight—

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Anything for you, baby.”

More guilt, more confusion, more anger…but I shove that all down too.

Because…not tonight.

I open the door of my car, help him into the passenger’s seat, and buckle him in before rounding the hood and doing the same with myself in the driver’s seat.

It’s only when I’m driving out of the cemetery that I ask,

“Where’s home for you?”