Page 137 of Broken Blades

If he tells you he cares, don't believe him.

He does this.

He breaks people.

Honey… if you think he loves you, that's a lie.

My vision blurred—not with tears, but with a hot rush of anger that made my hands shake. He didn't know. He hadn't seen Wyatt take care of me when I was sick, hadn't heard the way he whispered my name this morning like it was sacred, hadn't felt the tenderness in his touch.

Chastity: You don't know him.

A long pause stretched between messages. I watched the screen, pulse thundering in my ears.

I do, sweetheart.

I know exactly who he is.

And I'm trying to protect you.

I just want what's best for you.

I'll see you in a few nights.

I stared at the screen until it went dark.

Heart pounding.

Hands shaking.

Because for the first time in my life, I didn't believe my father.

I didn't trust his warnings or his concern or his version of what was "best for me." He'd handed me to Wyatt like a bargaining chip, used me to protect his merger, and now wanted to warn me away from the only person who'd treated me like I mattered?

The anger burned hotter.

Because I knew—deep in my bones—that whatever game was being played here, my father wasn't the innocent party he claimed to be.

And I didn't know what that meant for any of us.

But I knew one thing with absolute certainty. I wasn't walking away from Wyatt. Not for my father. Not for anyone. Not when I'd finally found someone who made me feel like I was more than just a piece on someone else's board.

Chapter 26

Wyatt

I skated like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts. Puck drills. Conditioning laps. Scrimmage. Normally the ice cleared my head, burned out everything except muscle memory and instinct.

Today? Every move landed half a second late.

I missed a pass I could've made in my sleep. Ryker whistled low, that knowing sound that made my jaw clench before he even opened his mouth.

I shoved him into the boards. Hard enough that the glass rattled.

Coach's whistle shrilled across the ice, sharp and final. His voice carried over the scrape of skates and the thud of bodies against plexiglass, telling me to save it for the game.

I muttered something under my breath and circled back to the line, forcing my legs to move through the motions even as my brain refused to cooperate.

Because the truth was simple and devastating: I couldn't stop thinking about Chastity in my bed this morning. Her laugh, soft and sleepy against my shoulder. Her hair fanned across my pillow like she belonged there. The way she'd looked at me—not with fear or calculation or performance, but like she saw past the scars and the reputation and the carefully maintained armor. Like I wasn't broken. Like I was worth keeping.