Page 44 of Broken Blades

I tilted my head. Considered lying. Considered comfort. Chose truth instead. "Guess you know where you rank now."

Her cheeks flushed—anger, humiliation, fear? Hard to say. Maybe all three bleeding together until she couldn't separate them herself. She straightened. Forced steadiness into her voice. The kind of control that took practice. Years of it.

"I'm not interested in anything physical."

I snorted. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just blunt. The sound of someone stating the obvious. "Trust me, sweetheart. I wouldn't touch you with a six-foot pole."

Her mouth fell open. Just slightly. Like I'd slapped her when she'd been braced for something else entirely.

I walked past her. Didn't slow. Didn't glance back. Suitcase swinging easily in my grip. "You're here because I said so, not because I want you."

I felt her freeze behind me. Heard the small intake of breath she tried to hide. That stung her more than she'd admit.

Good.

Distance kept things clean. Professional. A hostage situation worked best when neither party confused the arrangement for something it wasn't. She wasn't here because I found her attractive. She wasn't here because I wanted companionship or warmth or whatever fairy tale her college friends probably whispered about behind cupped hands.

She was leverage. A pawn. A tactical decision designed to destroy her father slowly enough that he'd feel every second of it.

And if some small, buried part of me recognized that she didn't deserve this—that she was innocent in a war she didn't even know existed—I shoved it down deep where it couldn't interfere.

Safer.

For both of us.

I headed to the kitchen. Called back without turning.

"Your bedroom’s the door on the right. Bathroom's across the hall. Don't go in my office or my bedroom." I paused on the landing. "But we’ll do a quick run-through of the first floor first, since we’re here. And for God's sake, stop looking at me like I'm going to hurt you."

Silence.

Then her voice. Quiet. Brittle. "Aren't you?"

I gripped the suitcase handle tighter. Let the question sit between us for three long seconds. "Not the way you think."

Kitchen first.

I gestured vaguely at the granite counters. The stainless steel appliances. Everything gleaming under recessed lighting that felt more surgical than homey.

"Coffee maker's there. Mugs in the cabinet above. I don't do flavored creamer or any of that garbage. Black or with milk. That's it."

She stood in the doorway. Arms wrapped around herself. Taking inventory with those careful eyes.

I opened the pantry. Showed her rows of protein powder. Meal prep containers stacked by size. Spice jars alphabetized because chaos in the kitchen meant chaos everywhere else.

"I cook," I said flatly. "Not because I enjoy it. Because restaurants ask questions and I don't like answering them."

Her gaze lingered on the labels. Everything organized. Everything intentional. Nothing spontaneous or warm or welcoming.

"You can use whatever you want. Just put it back where you found it."

I moved past her into the living room before she could respond.

Dark leather couch. Low coffee table. Massive TV mounted on the wall—the kind built for game footage analysis, not movie nights. Weights stacked neatly in the corner beside a yoga mat I never used but kept telling myself I would.

No throw pillows. No books. No pictures. Nothing that said a person lived here instead of just survived here.

I watched her scan the room. Saw the moment her expression shifted. Subtle. Just a flicker of surprise she tried to hide.