Page 23 of Broken Blades

Her hands shook.

"Oh, my gosh." She turned slightly away, shoulders curving inward. Protection instinct kicking in too late. Humiliated.

"I can't—" Her voice cracked. "I can't reach it."

She pressed her palms against the hedge for balance, fingers digging into branches dusted with snow. The movement made her back arch slightly, fabric slipping lower against her waist. Exposed. Vulnerable. Perfect.

"Please don't look at me." The words came out small. Desperate. Like she could will herself invisible if she asked hard enough.

Something dangerous shifted in my chest. Not lust—though Christ, she was beautiful standing there trying to disappear. Not even satisfaction at the plan accelerating ahead of schedule.

Power. Raw and absolute.

She needed me. Needed my hands to fix what had come undone. Needed me to cover what the night had exposed.

I controlled the next sixty seconds of her life. She just didn't know it yet.

I stepped behind her. Close enough that my body blocked the wind. Close enough that she'd feel my heat against her bare skin even through the space between us.

She went rigid. Breath stuttered audibly. I reached for the zipper pull, let my fingers brush the small of her back.

She inhaled sharply—sound catching in her throat, body jerking slightly forward before she forced herself still.

"Relax," I said. Low. Controlled. The voice I used on ice when younger players needed steadying.

She tried. I felt the effort in how her shoulders dropped half an inch, how her breathing deliberately slowed.

Good girl.

I pinched the zipper between thumb and forefinger and drew it upward. Slowly. Not hurried. Not rushed. Each tooth catching and releasing with quiet precision.

My knuckles grazed her spine as the metal climbed. Vertebrae under skin. Warmth radiating through silk. The subtle tremor running through her that she couldn't quite suppress.

She made a sound—barely audible. Somewhere between relief and something she probably didn't have words for yet.

I kept pulling. Kept my touch deliberate. Let each brush of knuckle against skin register as intentional rather than accidental.

She knew I was touching her. She knew I didn't have to. But she didn't pull away.

The wind picked up, carrying music from the ballroom. Laughter. Glasses clinking. The world continuing while we stood frozen in this moment.

I leaned closer—just enough that my breath would ghost across the nape of her neck when I spoke. "You're safe."

The lie tasted like ash.

I pulled the zipper home. Metal fastener clicking softly into place at the top of her dress.

But I didn't step back. Didn't give her the space she needed to turn, to thank me, to escape back to the safety of crowds and her father's protection.

I let the moment stretch instead. Let her feel me there—solid presence at her back, close enough to touch, close enough that moving would mean brushing against me. Ownership without contact.

She stood perfectly still, caught between gratitude and something her instincts screamed warnings about.

Smart girl.

Listen to those warnings.

But she wouldn't. I already knew that.