Page 56 of Broken Blades

Nothing more.

But my body hadn't gotten the memo. My shoulders had widened. My stance had shifted. Protective. Possessive. Territorial in a way that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with instinct I didn't want to examine.

A hand touched my arm. Light. Delicate. Barely there. "Wyatt." Her voice was soft. Uncertain. "Let's go."

I didn't look at her. Kept my eyes locked on the man who was now backing toward the door like I'd pulled a weapon.

"Wyatt. Please."

Her fingers pressed slightly firmer against my forearm. Grounding. Anchoring me to something that wasn't rage.

I exhaled slowly through my nose. Forced my shoulders to relax. Let the ice recede back into the dark where it lived most days.

The man scrambled out the door.

I turned back to the counter. Grabbed both cups. Handed hers over without meeting her eyes.

She took it carefully. Studying my face like I was a puzzle she couldn't solve. "You didn't have to do that."

I kept my voice flat. Neutral. Exactly as controlled as it should have been from the beginning. "Part of the act."

Boyfriends defended their girlfriends. Protective displays sold authenticity. The cameras outside had probably caught the whole thing. Perfect optics. Exactly what we needed.

But her expression didn't shift. Didn't buy it. Those dark-shadowed eyes searched mine for something I refused to let her find. "Was it?"

Two words. Quiet. Careful. Like she already knew the answer and was giving me a chance to tell the truth.

I didn't take it. "Yes."

I gestured toward the door with my coffee cup. "Let's go."

She hesitated. Just a beat. Then followed.

But as we stepped back into the cold morning air, cameras flashing, voices shouting, I slipped my other arm around her waist. Casual. Practiced. Like I'd done it a thousand times before.

The cameras erupted. Flashes strobed across her face, catching the surprise in her expression before she could hide it. She looked up at me. Eyes wide. Unguarded. Like she'd forgotten where we were. Forgotten what this was. Forgotten that she was supposed to hate me. Her expression softened. Something open and unprotected flickering across her features before she caught herself.

But it was too late.

The cameras had already captured it.

That single, unguarded moment would trend within the hour. I could already see the headline forming: Wyatt Cole Caught Looking at Harrington's Daughter Like THIS.

They'd spin it. Romanticize it. Turn it into proof that this was real. That we were real.

They'd be wrong.

I wasn't looking at her with affection. Wasn't feeling anything remotely resembling tenderness or warmth or whatever emotion they'd project onto that frozen frame.

I was looking at her the way a man looked at a complication he didn't plan for. A variable that refused to stay predictable. A problem wrapped in cream cashmere and dark-shadowed eyes.

We walked back to the car in silence. She stayed close—not because I'd told her to, but because the crowd made her nervous. The phones. The voices. The attention she'd never asked for.

I adjusted my pace without thinking. Slowed half a step to match her shorter stride. A small thing. Instinct. I hated it immediately.

She's not mine to protect. She's a piece in a strategy. A tool. A consequence. Nothing more.

But when her fingers brushed against mine—tentative, searching—my hand closed around hers before my brain could intervene. Not hard. Not staged. Natural. Too natural.