Page 114 of Broken Blades

I sat back slowly, jaw tight.

She still wouldn't look at me.

The kitchen felt smaller. Warmer. Dangerous.

I needed distance. Needed to rebuild the walls I'd just blown through without meaning to. But when she finally glanced up—cautious, curious, conflicted—I couldn't make myself move. Because the truth was becoming unavoidable. This stopped being revenge the moment I started wanting her to stay.

Chapter 21

Chastity

I pulled on the Serpents sweater—oversized, soft, smelling faintly of Wyatt's detergent because he'd washed it for me after the charity skate.

I shouldn't have liked that. I shouldn't have noticed things like that.

But I did. God help me, I did.

The fabric settled against my skin, warm and comfortable in a way that felt dangerous. Like I was claiming something I had no right to claim. Like wearing his team's name across my chest meant something more than optics and performance.

I grabbed my curling iron, hands less steady than they should've been. The barrel heated while I stared at myself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, the kind of nervous energy that had nothing to do with crowds or cameras.

This was different. Wrong. Reckless.

I curled my hair in loose waves, the way I knew looked good in photos. Applied light makeup—mascara, a touch of blush, lip gloss that caught the light. Professional. Polished. The daughter Thomas Harrington raised to represent his brand perfectly.

Except I wasn't dressing for investors tonight.

I was dressing for him.

The realization hit hard enough I had to grip the counter. My pulse jumped, heat crawling up my neck as I tried to convince myself that wasn't true. That this was still fake. Still a performance. Still thirty days of obligation and nothing more.

But my reflection called me a liar.

I grabbed my keys, forcing myself to move before I could spiral further into whatever this feeling was. My stomach fluttered—not anxiety, not fear. Something lighter. Brighter. More terrifying than either.

Not for the game. Not for the crowd or the cameras or the public spectacle of being Wyatt Cole's girlfriend.

For him.

For the way he'd looked at me last night when I'd kissed his cheek. For the casual intimacy of his thumb brushing my chin. For the steady warmth in his voice when he'd said I didn't have to earn anything from him.

I caught my own eyes in the mirror one last time. "Stop being weird," I muttered.

But my heart didn't listen.

It kept beating too fast, kept pulling me toward something I couldn't name and shouldn't want. Kept reminding me that in less than two weeks, I'd started feeling safer with Wyatt Garrison than I'd ever felt with the man who raised me.

And that terrified me more than anything else.

I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs, careful not to make too much noise. Wyatt had left an hour ago for pre-game prep, and the house felt unnervingly quiet without him in it.

The drive to the arena took twenty minutes through winter-dark streets lined with snow. I gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, nerves building with every block that brought me closer.

The parking lot buzzed with life when I arrived—a sea of jerseys and face paint and electric anticipation. Families streamed toward the entrance, kids bouncing on their toes, parents juggling foam fingers and hot chocolate. Music thundered from inside the building, bass vibrating through my chest even from the car. Vendors shouted about programs and scarves and last-minute tickets. The giant screens mounted on the arena's exterior pulsed with player highlights and sponsor logos, bathing everything in flickering blue and silver light.

I sat for a moment, watching it all, feeling completely out of place.

These weren't my people. This wasn't my world.