Page 40 of Broken Blades

Mom pulled back. Kept her hands on my shoulders. Searched my face like she was memorizing it. Like I was leaving for years instead of weeks. Like something irreversible was happening and we both knew it but couldn't name it.

She said softly, "This will protect everything."

The same vague, all-encompassing promise that meant nothing and everything simultaneously.

I looked between them. Mom's anxious face. Dad's rigid posture. The space between them that suddenly felt wider than it should. "Protect from what?"

The question hung there. Simple. Direct. Demanding an answer I knew wouldn't come.

Neither of them spoke.

I climbed the stairs slowly. Each step heavier than the last. My legs moved on autopilot while my mind spun in circles. Chasing questions I couldn't answer. Trying to piece together fragments that refused to fit.

My bedroom door clicked shut behind me.

I leaned against it. Let my weight press into the solid wood. Breath shaking. Ribs tight. Like my lungs had forgotten how to expand properly.

Thirty days.

The number kept circling. Looping. Counting down before it even started.

I pushed off the door. Moved toward my closet. Pulled out the suitcase I'd used for college. The familiar weight of it somehow made everything more real. More final. More terrifyingly inevitable.

I unzipped it across my bed. Started packing. Mechanical at first. Muscle memory taking over where thought failed.

Jeans folded neatly. Sweaters stacked. Underwear tucked in the corner. Toiletries gathered from the bathroom. Toothbrush. Face wash. The vanilla lotion I'd used since high school.

My hands moved but my mind stayed blank. Empty. Refusing to process what I was actually doing. Where I was actually going. Who I'd be living with.

Then I paused.

On my dresser—a framed photo I hadn't looked at in months.

Me and Connor. Arms around each other. Grinning at the camera like we had forever figured out. Young. Stupid. Naive enough to think intensity meant love.

My chest tightened. He'd been charming too. Sweet at first. Flowers and late-night conversations and promises that felt permanent. Then jealous. Watching my phone. Questioning my friends. Making everything feel like a test I kept failing.

Controlling.

Explosive.

He never hit me. I told myself that mattered. That it meant something. That I was overreacting when my stomach twisted before seeing him. When I started choosing my words carefully. When I learned to navigate his moods like walking through a minefield.

But he broke things. Walls. Phones. Plates. The crack of ceramic shattering. The thud of his fist through drywall. The way he'd stand too close afterward. Too intense. Too possessive. Breathing hard. Watching me watch the damage. Daring me to say something.

I remembered the feeling. The trapped-animal panic. The constant calculation of how to be smaller. Quieter. Less likely to trigger whatever lurked beneath his charm.

Wyatt had stood close last night at the masquerade gala. But it wasn't wild. Wasn't chaotic. Wasn't the barely-contained violence I'd learned to recognize. To anticipate. To fear. His closeness felt… measured. Deliberate. Like every inch of space he took had been calculated. Chosen. Weaponized with precision instead of rage.

That almost scared me more.

I picked up the photo. Studied my younger self. The girl who thought she could fix someone. Who believed love meant accepting unacceptable things. Who confused control for care.

I survived that. Surely, I can survive this.

But Wyatt had a reputation. The Bounty Hunter. Violent. Temperamental. Unpredictable on ice. A man whose career highlight reel included broken bones and penalty minutes and commentators using words like "dangerous" and "volatile."

I imagined living under the same roof. Sharing space with someone built for controlled violence. Whose job required aggression. Whose scars suggested he'd survived things that would break other people.