Page 50 of Broken Blades

His shadow fell over me. Not menacing. Not aggressive. Just there. Inescapable.

"Rule two—physical touch is non-negotiable."

My pulse spiked. Sharp and immediate. A warning bell clanging in my chest.

"We don't have to⁠—"

"We do."

He cut me off clean. No room for argument. No space for negotiation.

Then he listed it. Calm. Clinical. Like he was reading from a manual.

Hand on the lower back. Holding hands. Him brushing hair off my shoulder. Guiding me in crowds. Leaning close to whisper. Occasionally touching my waist. Me touching his arm when I laughed.

Each item landed like a stone. Heavy. Unavoidable. Building into something I couldn't see around.

My head spun. The room tilted slightly. I gripped the couch cushion beneath me just to anchor myself to something solid. "This is humiliating."

"This is believable."

I stood. Too fast. Dizziness washed over me but I pushed through it. Forced myself upright. Forced myself to meet his eyes even though every instinct screamed at me to run.

"I can't just—pretend like I'm comfortable with that!"

He stepped closer. Not threatening. Not looming over me or crowding my space. Just erasing distance. One step. Then another. Until the air between us disappeared. Until I could smell his cologne—clean and sharp and masculine. Until I felt the heat radiating off him even though he wasn't touching me.

"Then practice."

I froze.

Every muscle locked. Every nerve ending fired at once. My brain screamed move but my body refused to obey.

He lifted his hand. Slowly. So slowly I had time to step back. Time to slap it away. Time to say no.

I hated that I didn't.

His fingers brushed against my temple. Feather-light. Barely there. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with the kind of gentleness that made my chest tighten.

My breath trembled. Audible. Humiliating.

He held my gaze. Steady. Unflinching. Reading every micro-expression that crossed my face. "Do that again in public and no one questions a thing."

Heat flooded my cheeks. Spread down my neck. Burned across my collarbone.

Because he was right.

That tiny hitch in my breathing. That barely-there tremble. That flush crawling across my skin.

It looked real. Felt real. Was real.

And he knew it.

He sat back down like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just touched me. Like my breathing hadn't stuttered and betrayed me. Like he hadn't catalogued every involuntary reaction and filed it away for later use.

The couch cushion dipped under his weight. He draped his arm over the backrest again. Casual. Unbothered. Completely in control.

"Rule three—first public outing is tomorrow."