Page 59 of Broken Blades

The accusation landed like a slap. My chest tightened with something between fury and shame.

"I was scared. Overwhelmed. Trying not to completely fall apart in front of strangers who think they know me." I leaned closer. Close enough to see the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow. "So forgive me if my survival instinct looked convincing to you."

His jaw ticked. The only sign I'd hit something. Then he opened his door. Got out. Rounded the car with that predator-calm stride that made my pulse jump every damn time. He opened my door before I could reach for the handle. Extended a hand.

I stared at it. At him. "We're home," I said flatly. "No cameras here."

"Habit." His voice dropped lower. "Better get used to it."

I ignored his hand. Climbed out myself. Shoulder brushing his chest as I pushed past. His quiet laugh followed me all the way to the door. It behind us with a soft click that felt too final. Like sealing a tomb.

I stood in the entryway, buzzing. Nerves crawled under my skin, electric and relentless. My phone burned in my pocket. The weight of thousands of eyes I'd never meet pressed down on my shoulders.

Wyatt moved past me without a word. Shed his jacket. Draped it over the back of a chair with the same controlled precision he brought to everything else. He crossed to the kitchen. Pulled a glass from the cabinet. Filled it with water from the tap. Drank half of it in two swallows. Annoyingly calm. Completely unbothered. Like we hadn't just been photographed and dissected and turned into entertainment for strangers.

I followed him. Couldn't help it. The silence scraped against my already frayed nerves. "People think we're… into each other."

The words tumbled out sharper than I meant. Heat crawled up my neck the second they landed.

He set the glass down. Leaned one hip against the counter. Studied me with those dark, unreadable eyes. "Good. That's the goal."

I stared at him. Waited for the punchline. The smirk. Something to indicate he understood how mortifying this was.

Nothing.

"It's humiliating."

He shrugged. One shoulder. Effortless dismissal. "Only if you let it be."

My mouth fell open. Actual shock rendered me momentarily speechless.

Then I found my voice. "Oh sure, let me just decide to not feel human emotions today." I crossed my arms. Gripped my elbows to stop my hands from shaking. "I'll pencil that in right after I learn to breathe underwater and fly."

His eyebrow lifted. Not mocking. Almost… impressed? "You survived a café full of cameras. You'll survive this."

I wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something. Wanted him to stop being so maddeningly steady while I felt like I was coming apart at the seams.

Instead, I muttered, "I'm not sure."

The words came out smaller than I intended. More honest.

Silence stretched between us. Heavy. Weighted with something I couldn't name.

"You will."

His voice softened. By a fraction. Barely enough to register. But I heard it. Two words. Simple. Matter-of-fact. Not reassurance. Not comfort. Just certainty. Like he'd already decided the outcome and my doubt was irrelevant.

It threw me off more than the cameras had. More than his touch at the café. More than the photos trending across the internet. Because for half a second—one breathless, confusing moment—I almost believed him.

My throat tightened. I looked away. Studied the pristine countertop like it held answers I desperately needed. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Act like none of this affects you."

His expression shifted. Barely. A shadow crossing his features too fast to catch. "Practice."

One word. Loaded with something dark I didn't understand yet.