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I square my shoulders, ready to tell her exactly who I am when a croaky voice sounds behind me. Even through the exhaustion and swollen tongue, his velvet cadence licks up the length of my spine, leaving a trail of raised flesh in its wake.

“She isn’t just anyone,” Tate rasps. “That’s my wife.”

SEVEN

TATE

She’s so beautiful it hurts.

How does she get more beautiful every day?

I drink her in, though it’s more of a feral need to quench my thirst. Actually, I am thirsty. I look around for some water but give up. My body hurts like a bitch. I treat myself to another look at Talia, hoping it’ll ease the discomfort.

Something feels…off.

What’s different?

I feel the same, apart from my body hurting like a bitch. I’m in the hospital, so I’m guessing I had a seizure.

Her hair is the same striking russet. I squint. One. Two. Three. And yep, same freckles. Hazel eyes that were plucked from the mines with their specks of gold. Her body, fuck, her body is still curvy in all the right places—wide hips, full breasts, bitable ass. Shit, I’m getting hard just thinking about her backside, a risk considering all I’m wearing is a thin hospital gown.

God, I want to hug her, kiss her senseless.

Oh, she’s mad, frowning at the nurse. I love it when she’s mad.

Down, boy.

She’s here, ready to take me home, and hand-feed me ice cream and banana pudding like she always does after a seizure. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. My body feels like a semitruck hit it, and my tongue is double in size. I must have bitten it. Four years. I’d gone four years without a seizure.

But she was here, and that’s all that matters.

I watch her as she bickers with the nurse.

“Right, and what exactly is your relationship with Mr. Brooks?”

“Is that important?” Talia folds her arms.

“Yes. I need to put it on the visitor records,” the nurse replies impatiently. “We can’t let just anyone in here.”

My mouth is desert dry, and I have to force my words out through balls of cotton. “She isn’t just anyone. That’s my wife.”

That’ll never get old, and I’ve always loved the way Talia lights up like the Fourth of July whenever I refer to her that way.

Only this time, her pretty face twists with sadness. I don’t like that look. Did we have an argument before my seizure?

“I’m fine, baby. Don’t worry.” The words come out funny, my f’s sounding more like b’s.

Her eyes pinch closed, and she turns away. Do I look that bad? She’ll be worried, but I’ve never seen her react like this.

Then it hits me.

Forget the semi.

This realization is a category five hurricane.

It steals the breath from my lungs, leaves me disoriented, and reintroduces the forgotten pool of dread in my stomach. My memory is always shot after a seizure, wiping the last twenty-four hours. This one caused me to forget an entire year.

She is my wife.