Page 127 of Broken Blades

My fingers gripped his hoodie tight enough the fabric bunched in my fists. I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except feel—the heat of his mouth, the strength in his hands, the way he held me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.

I whispered against his lips, barely recognizing my own voice. "Wyatt…"

He made a sound low in his throat—an actual growl that vibrated through his chest and straight into mine. His hands slid under the hem of my hoodie, palms warm and rough against the bare skin of my waist.

"You're killing me."

The words came out strained, broken, like they'd been dragged from somewhere deep he'd never meant anyone to reach.

I should have pulled back. Should have been terrified. Should have remembered all the reasons this was dangerous and reckless and completely insane.

His forehead dropped to mine.

He was trying to breathe. Trying not to cross a line. Trying not to lose control completely.

I felt the war raging inside him—restraint battling hunger, duty fighting want, every muscle in his body pulled taut with the effort of holding back.

"Chastity…" His voice came out rough, desperate. "If I keep going, I won't be able to stop."

I looked at him—really looked—seeing the darkness in his eyes, the hunger barely leashed, the warning written across every line of his face.

I should have been afraid. But all I felt was want so fierce it stole what little breath I had left.

I cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the bandage I'd just placed there with trembling fingers. And whispered the words that would change everything. "Maybe I don't want you to."

He cursed under his breath—low, filthy, devastating.

Then he pulled me in again.

Our mouths collided, desperate and searching and absolutely inevitable. His hands moved up my sides, mapping skin and curves with a reverence that felt like worship and possession tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

My body melted into his, soft where he was hard, yielding where he was demanding, wanting in ways I'd never let myself want before.

And he⁠—

He let himself want me back.

No more pretending.

No more distance.

No more careful control.

Just heat and breath and need spiraling between us like gravity, pulling us together with a force neither of us could fight anymore.

For one long, devastating moment, we forgot everything—the revenge, the lies, the deal, the ticking clock counting down to the end of our arrangement.

There was only this.

Only us.

Only the truth we'd been running from since the moment our worlds collided.

His hands slid under my hoodie, fingers tracing the curve of my waist before gripping the hem. He pulled back just enough to look at me—really look—like he was waiting for permission, for hesitation, for any sign this wasn’t what I wanted.

I didn’t give him one.

I reached for the bottom of his hoodie and tugged. He let me pull it over his head, muscles shifting beneath my palms as I explored the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of scars I’d only glimpsed before. My fingers trembled against his skin, tracing the raised lines, the heat of him burning through my touch.