Page 101 of Broken Blades

"Christ." I fixed the shirt. Untangled the pants. Kept my gaze locked firmly on the wall above her head. "You're a disaster."

She hummed. Almost laughed.

I wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and led her back to the couch. She collapsed immediately, curling into the cushions like a child.

I grabbed another blanket. Tucked it around her carefully. Made sure her head was elevated. Water within reach.

She blinked up at me. Hazy and unfocused but wearing the softest expression I'd ever seen.

"You're really nice sometimes."

Every muscle in my body locked. Froze. Stopped working entirely.

Nice.

No one called me nice. Ever. For good reason.

I wasn't nice. I was calculated. Strategic. Using her to destroy her father. Nothing about that was nice.

"Go to sleep."

The words came out harder than necessary. Defensive.

She smiled anyway. Soft and sloppy and so trusting it carved something out of my chest. "Okay, Wyatt."

Her eyes closed. Breathing evened out almost immediately.

I stood there watching her. The defenselessness. The innocence. The way she'd curled toward me even unconscious—like her body knew I'd keep her safe even when her mind couldn't process why that was the worst possible instinct.

I swallowed hard. Pulled a chair close. Sat down. Watched her sleep. Stood guard like I had any right to. And finally admitted the truth I'd been running from since the moment she'd defended me to Barbara. This is bad. This is so, so bad.

I covered her with another blanket. Adjusted the water glass. Made sure she was breathing evenly.

Then sat back and stared at the ceiling.

I'm in deeper than I ever should've let myself go.

I'd wanted revenge. Wanted to hurt her father through the one thing he valued most.

But somewhere between fake dates and forced proximity and her goddamn smile—I'd stopped pretending.

And she had no idea.

Chapter 19

Chastity

I woke to a pounding headache, a desert-dry mouth, and the sudden, horrifying realization that I wasn't in my bed.

I was on the couch. Wrapped in two blankets. Hair tied back. Face clean. Water bottle and Tylenol on the coffee table.

"No. No, no, no."

The memories slammed into me like a freight train:

Dancing. Laughing. Wyatt's hands on my waist—firm and warm and impossibly steady. Leaning into him. His breath against my ear. The way his chest felt under my palms when I'd pulled him close.

And then throwing up. Everywhere. In front of his teammates. In front of the entire bar.