Page 48 of Broken Blades

He didn't say anything this time. Just lifted his hand. Made a small, lazy gesture with two fingers. The kind of motion you'd use to call a dog.

"Closer."

The word slid over my skin like ice. Not loud. Not harsh. Just absolute. A command dressed up as a suggestion.

I wanted to refuse. Wanted to plant myself exactly where I was and make him say it again. Make him work for it. But my body moved before my pride could stop it.

I sat down one cushion over. Close enough now that if either of us shifted, our knees would touch. Close enough to smell him—something clean and faintly woodsy. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him even though he wasn't moving.

His gaze held mine. Steady. Unyielding. "Better."

I wanted to punch him. Wanted to shove him backwards into the couch cushions and wipe that smug, controlled expression off his face. Wanted to scream that I wasn't a chess piece he could position however he liked.

Instead, I forced my voice to stay level. "You said we were going over rules."

He nodded once. Slow. Deliberate. "Rule one—no arguing with me in public."

My jaw tightened. "I don't argue."

His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Something sharper. "You already have. Twice."

"When?"

"Just now. And in the restaurant."

I opened my mouth. Snapped it shut again. Heat crawled up my neck.

He saw it. I knew he did. The way his eyes tracked the flush spreading across my skin. The way his expression shifted—just slightly—into something that looked like satisfaction.

Like he'd won.

I glared at him. Couldn't help it. And that made it worse. Because the moment I did, his smile widened. Just a fraction. Just enough to let me know he'd counted that too.

Another point in his favor. Another crack in my armor.

I forced my hands to unclench in my lap. Forced my breathing to slow. Forced myself to look at him without flinching. "What's rule two?"

"Your father released the statement already."

I stiffened. The words landed like stones in my stomach, heavy and cold. "What did it say?"

He reached for his phone. Moved with that same infuriating calm. Unlocked it with his thumb. Scrolled once. Twice. Then read aloud without looking at me.

“I was going to do it, but apparently, he doesn’t listen well.” He cleared his throat. "'My daughter and Wyatt Cole have been seeing each other privately for several months and chose to keep it quiet to protect her privacy. The moment caught on camera was taken out of context.'"

My stomach twisted. Sharp. Immediate. Like someone had reached inside and wrung it dry.

Months.

Months.

I'd never spoken to him until two nights ago. Never seen him without a mask. Never even known his name existed in my orbit until my father said it over breakfast like a curse word. And now the entire world thought we'd been sneaking around for half a year.

"People will know that's not true." The words came out too fast. Too desperate. I hated the sound of my own voice—thin and shaky and small.

He set the phone down on the armrest. Looked at me with that flat, unreadable expression. "No, sweetheart. You know it's not true. That's enough."

That sweetheart hit wrong. Like he'd taken something soft and turned it into a weapon. Like he was wrapping barbed wire around sugar and forcing me to swallow it whole.