Page 42 of Broken Blades

Wyatt

I stood in the entryway. Arms crossed. Weight balanced. Expression flat. Not pacing. Not anxious. Not eager. Just waiting.

The house spread out behind me—clean lines, dark wood, steel accents. Minimalist in the way people called "intentional" when they meant "empty." No throw pillows. No family photos. No signs anyone lived here beyond basic survival. A place built for solitude. Not guests. Certainly not hostages.

I checked the time. 6:47 PM.

They were late.

I'd expected that. Harrington probably sat in the driveway with the engine running, delivering some final pep talk. Reminding her this was temporary. Necessary. For the family.

Maybe she cried. Maybe she didn't.

I didn't think she had. She seemed like the type to break quietly instead of loudly. To fracture inward where no one could see. To hold everything together until she was alone.

I respected that more than tears.

Headlights swept across the front windows. The engine cut. Car doors opened and closed with muffled precision. Footsteps on the walkway. Two sets. One heavier. One hesitant.

I moved to the door. Positioned myself directly in front of it. Solid. Unmovable. The first thing they'd see when it opened.

The knock came. Three sharp raps. Harrington's rhythm. Controlled even now.

I opened the door before he could knock again. Harrington stood on my porch. Coat buttoned. Jaw tight. One hand on Chastity's suitcase like he might change his mind and take it back.

Behind him, Chastity. Pale. Composed. Eyes harder than they'd been this morning. Like somewhere between the restaurant and here, she'd made a decision. Locked something down. Armored up.

"You’re late," I said.

Harrington's mouth thinned. "We had an agreement."

"We did." I stepped back. Gestured them inside. "Come in."

Neither moved immediately.

Chastity's gaze swept past me into the house. Taking inventory. Checking exits. Reading the space the way prey read territory.

Smart girl.

"I'm not going to bite," I said.

Her eyes snapped to mine. Sharp. Suspicious.

"Not yet, anyway."

Harrington's hand tightened on the suitcase handle. "Garrison⁠—"

"Relax." I kept my voice level. Bored almost. "It's called a joke."

But I didn't smile.

Neither did she.

The standoff stretched. Three people in a doorway. One threshold. Thirty days hanging between us like a noose.

Finally, Chastity stepped forward. Chin up. Shoulders back. Every inch of her radiating fury she was too well-trained to voice.

She crossed into my house. And I shut the door behind her.