Page 18 of Broken Blades

He stepped closer—not rushed, not aggressive, just... forward. Into clearer light. "I can tell."

Something in the way he said it made heat crawl up my neck. Not crude. Not obvious. Just observant enough to feel invasive.

I straightened, fingers tightening on the balustrade behind me. His voice tugged at something familiar in my memory, but I couldn't place it. The mask obscured too much. The shadows did the rest.

Investor, maybe. One of the players I hadn't met yet. A donor important enough that Dad would expect me to recognize him.

Someone I should know.

Chapter 4

Wyatt

I tracked her from the moment she entered.

Forty yards across the transformed estate floor, past the investors clustered near the bar, beyond the string quartet sawing through something classical and forgettable.

She moved beside her father like a satellite—close enough to orbit, far enough to maintain her own gravity.

The dress caught light when she turned. White, backless, sophisticated in a way that made her look older than twenty-one. But her movements betrayed her. The way she smoothed the fabric. The way her free hand found her father's forearm when someone new approached. Nervous. Eager to please.

Harrington introduced her to a board member—tall man, silver hair, practiced smile. I watched her extend her hand. Watched her match his handshake with surprising firmness. Watched her mouth shape words I couldn't hear but could guess.

Pleased to meet you. Yes, I'm looking forward to the role. Thank you so much.

Polished. Rehearsed.

But when the man turned away, her smile faltered for half a second before resetting.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. That gesture. I'd seen it three times already. Always when the noise swelled. Always when too many people crowded too close. Overwhelmed.

I lifted my glass, let expensive whiskey burn down my throat, and didn't take my eyes off her.

Two younger players approached—Stevens and Mercado, forwards, mid-twenties, exactly the kind of cocky bastards who thought charm was a personality.

Stevens said something that made her laugh. The sound carried across marble and crystal and bullshit conversation. Light. Easy. Genuine. Too easy.

She didn't know these men. Didn't know what they wanted. Didn't recognize the way Stevens leaned into her space, the way Mercado's gaze dropped to the open back of her dress.

Sharks circling chum.

My fingers tightened on the glass.

Mercado gestured—some exaggerated story, probably about a game-winning goal he'd scored. She smiled politely but didn't lean in. Didn't touch his arm the way she touched her father's. Didn't mirror their energy.

She held herself separate. Good. Smart. She's softer than I thought.

The observation landed unwelcome. I shoved it down. Soft didn't matter. Soft wasn't relevant to the plan.

But the thought stayed anyway, sticky and uncomfortable.

God help her.

Harrington reappeared, placed his hand at her elbow, steered her away from the players with practiced authority. They scattered immediately—boys recognizing a predator when one marked territory.

He said something quiet near her ear. She nodded, smiled up at him.

Pride in his expression. Proprietary.