Page 47 of Broken Blades

Too polished. Too sheltered. Too used to comfort and safety and people who protected her instead of using her.

She'd break. Cry. Call her father begging to come home. And when she did, I'd let her. After the damage was done.

But underneath that certainty—buried deep where I didn't have to examine it—was something else. Something I refused to name.

The way she'd stood in that hallway. Chin up despite everything. Eyes hard with fury she couldn't voice.

She had spine.

I hated that I'd noticed.

Chapter 9

Chastity

I stood outside the guest room door. Took a slow breath. Let it out through my nose.

The house pressed in around me. Silent. Masculine. Sterile. All hard edges and dark wood and cold metal fixtures. No softness anywhere. No warmth except what leaked from the single lamp he'd left burning in my room.

It felt like a cage. Not because of locks or bars. Because of the weight of it. The way every sound I made seemed too loud. The way the air itself felt controlled. Measured. His.

Wyatt was somewhere downstairs. I couldn't see him. Couldn't hear him. But I felt it anyway. The same way prey feels a predator's attention even when he isn't looking. The way your skin prickled when you were being watched. That heavy, inescapable awareness that you weren’t alone.

I forced myself to move. Hand on the rail. One step. Then another. The stairs creaked under my weight—barely, but enough. Enough that he'd know I was coming.

My pulse kicked up. Stupid. Irrational. I wasn't walking into danger. Just a conversation. Rules and expectations, he'd said. Professional. Transactional.

But my body didn't believe that.

The living room came into view. And there he was. Sitting on the couch. Relaxed posture. One leg sprawled out in front of him, ankle crossed over his knee. Arm draped over the backrest like he had all the time in the world. Head tipped back slightly. Completely unbothered. He looked like he owned the space. Owned the silence. Owned the air I was breathing.

And worse—he looked like he owned my presence in it.

His eyes lifted. Found me on the stairs. Tracked my steps as I descended. Not hungry. Not flirty. Not even particularly interested.

Just assessing. The way a buyer examined a purchase. The way a coach sized up a rookie. The way someone with power looked at someone without it.

I hated the way my breath stuttered. Hated the flush creeping up my neck. Hated that I couldn't control the way my hands tightened on the rail.

I reached the bottom step. Stopped there. Stood with my spine straight and my chin up because I refused to look small in front of him.

But I felt small anyway.

The distance between the stairs and the couch seemed impossibly wide. And impossibly narrow. Both at once.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched me stand there with that same flat, measuring expression. Waiting.

For what, I didn't know. But the weight of his attention settled over me like a hand at the back of my neck. Gentle. Inescapable. And I realized with sudden, awful clarity that this was how the next thirty days would feel.

I moved toward the couch. Chose the armchair farthest from him. Sat down with my hands folded in my lap. Back straight. Legs crossed at the ankle like my mother taught me. Professional distance. Safe distance.

His gaze flicked over me. Lingered on the space between us. Then returned to my face with something that looked almost like amusement.

"If you sit that far from me in public, everyone will know it's fake."

My throat tightened. I swallowed against it. Stood. Moved to the other end of the couch. Put two cushions between us.

Still too far, apparently.