Page 53 of Broken Blades

She finally looked at me. Brief. Guarded. Then away again.

"Ready?" I kept my voice flat. Neutral.

She nodded once. Didn't trust herself to speak.

I grabbed my keys from the counter. "Let's go."

We headed into the garage together. She opened the passenger door and slid inside without hesitation. No dramatics. No last-minute refusal.

I appreciated efficiency.

I set my phone in the console between us. Started the car. The engine purred to life, smooth and quiet. German engineering. Reliable. Predictable. Unlike everything else in my life right now.

I shifted into reverse, hand moving to the gear shift—Her fingers jerked back from the console. Fast. Instinctive. Like I'd burned her.

I pretended not to notice. Kept my expression neutral. Eyes on the rearview. But I noticed.

She was jumpy. Not because I was a monster. Not because she thought I'd hurt her. But because she didn't know what I was yet. Didn't know if I was safe or dangerous. Controlled or volatile. Whether the calm was real or just the eye of something worse.

Uncertainty kept people honest.

I pulled out of the driveway and headed toward the main road. No music. No radio. Just the hum of tires on pavement and the faint sound of her breathing.

She sat rigid. Hands folded in her lap. Gaze fixed on the road ahead like she was memorizing the route. Planning an escape.

Halfway there, she broke the silence. "Do we..." Her voice was quiet. Careful. "Do we hold hands? Or wait until we're out of the car?"

I pressed my tongue against my teeth to stop a laugh.

This girl.

Too literal.

Too earnest.

Too completely unaware of how my world worked.

She wasn't asking to manipulate. Wasn't playing games or fishing for reassurance. She genuinely wanted to know the choreography. Like this was a dance she could master if someone just showed her the steps.

"Not in the car." I kept my tone flat. Matter-of-fact. "Outside."

"Okay."

Her voice was small. But not weak. Not defeated. Just... compliant. She'd do what was necessary. Follow the rules. Play her part. Because she believed it was temporary.

Thirty days.

Then freedom.

I tightened my grip on the wheel and kept driving.

She had no idea how quickly thirty days could rewrite a life.

The café appeared through the windshield like a gauntlet. Too many people clustered on the sidewalk. Phones already raised. Faces turned toward the street like they'd been waiting.

My jaw ticked. I hadn't expected this many. Word must have spread faster than I'd calculated. The statement went live last night. Eight hours was apparently enough time for every wannabe journalist and social media vulture to stake out the most likely spots.

Effective. But inconvenient.