Page 30 of Broken Blades

For the first time in my life, my father looked afraid. Not angry. Not disappointed. Scared. The realization hit harder than any headline.

Thomas Harrington didn't get scared. He got strategic. He got focused. He solved problems with phone calls and contracts and the kind of quiet power that made boardrooms shift in their seats.

But right now, driving through morning traffic with his daughter beside him, he looked like a man who'd just realized he couldn't control the narrative. Couldn't fix this with money or influence or carefully worded statements. Something had slipped beyond his reach.

I faced forward again. Watched the road disappear beneath us. My hands stayed folded in my lap. Small. Still. Waiting for whatever came next.

The restaurant should have been loud. Clinking plates. Quiet conversation. The hum of lunchtime crowds pressing against windows and waiting for tables.

Instead, silence.

My father's hand stayed at the small of my back as he guided me through the entrance. Past the hostess stand—empty. Past rows of tables draped in white cloth—vacant. The lights hung dim and golden overhead. Casting shadows that pooled in corners and made the entire space feel like a stage set.

Only one section lived. One table. Already prepared. Wine glasses catching light. Silverware gleaming against dark linen.

One man.

He sat facing the door. Casual. Controlled. Like he'd been waiting exactly this long and expected nothing less.

No mask this time.

My stomach dropped so hard I stopped moving.

My father's hand pressed more firmly against my spine. A silent command. Keep walking.

I recognized him instantly. The height. The shoulders. The way he occupied space without shifting. Still as carved stone. Still as a predator deciding whether prey was worth the chase.

But without the mask, he was more.

Worse.

A scar cut clean across his left cheekbone. Pale against tan skin. Another traced faint and silver along his jaw. Not fresh. Old enough to have settled into permanence. Arena lights and years on ice had weathered his face into something hard. Unyielding. Not pretty. Not polished in the way of men who lived behind desks and wore tailored suits because image mattered.

This man wore violence like other men wore cologne. His eyes tracked our approach. Dark. Unreadable. The kind that gave nothing away even when they saw everything. Not handsome. But impossible to ignore.

He looked like someone who had survived something brutal. Walked through fire or hell or whatever burned hot enough to leave marks. And instead of breaking… He'd sharpened.

My pulse hammered against my ribs. Loud enough I was certain everyone could hear it.

He didn't stand when we approached. Didn't smile. Didn't offer any of the polite gestures men usually performed when my father brought me anywhere that mattered.

He just watched. Waited. Let the silence stretch until my father pulled out my chair.

I sat because my legs wouldn't hold me much longer.

Wyatt Garrison's gaze never left my face.

And for the first time since the photograph broke, I understood exactly how much danger I was in.

Chapter 6

Wyatt

I didn't stand when they walked in. The power in this room already belonged to me, whether Harrington wanted to admit it or not.

I watched her cross the restaurant. Small steps. Careful. Like a deer realizing it had wandered into a clearing with no cover and too many shadows.

The outfit she'd chosen was different from the gala. Buttoned high. Structured. Professional armor meant to communicate control she didn't have. Her hands stayed folded against her stomach. Her eyes swept the empty room before landing on me.