Page 64 of Broken Blades

I hadn't been planning to say anything. But now I definitely wouldn't—because she'd told me not to.

That irritated me more than the dress itself.

"Let's go."

The words came out sharper than necessary. Clipped. Professional distance wrapped in barely controlled something I refused to name.

She blinked once. Processed the tone. Then moved toward the door without argument.

I pulled it open, stepping aside to let her pass. She moved past me into the cool evening air, close enough that her perfume—something subtle, floral, completely at odds with the steel I'd expected her to armor herself with—hit my chest like a physical thing.

I exhaled slowly through my nose. Counted to three. Followed her out and locked the door behind us.

The car sat waiting in the driveway. I'd detailed it this afternoon while she'd been hiding upstairs. Removed any trace of yesterday's coffee cups. Made sure the interior looked like it belonged to someone who gave a damn about impressions.

She stood beside the passenger door, waiting. Right. Because I'd opened it for her at the café. Because that was what boyfriends did in public. Because consistency mattered when building a believable narrative.

I moved around the car and opened her door. She slid in without meeting my eyes.

Good.

Better if she didn't look at me right now. Better if she stayed annoyed. Kept that defensive wall between us that the dress had somehow threatened without her even realizing it.

I closed her door with more force than necessary. Walked around to the driver's side. Sat down and started the engine.

Tonight was already a problem. And we hadn't even left the driveway.

She sat with her hands folded in her lap. Not gripping her purse. Not fidgeting with her phone. Not white-knuckling the door handle like she had yesterday morning. Just… thoughtful.

I hated when she got quiet like this. Quiet meant thinking. Thinking meant she was processing something I couldn't control. Processing meant variables I hadn't accounted for.

Thinking meant trouble.

"You okay?" The question came out before I could stop it. Genuine concern wrapped in casual indifference. Like I gave a damn either way.

She turned her head slightly, eyes widening with surprise. Like she hadn't expected me to check in. Like she'd assumed I'd drive in silence and let her spiral alone.

"I'm… preparing." Her voice carried that same defensive edge from earlier. But softer now. Less bite.

"For what?"

"Whatever fresh hell tonight brings."

The honesty surprised me more than it should have.

I huffed a laugh—short, unwilling, dragged out of my chest against my better judgment. "Good instincts."

She turned back to the window. Watched the streetlights blur past. Said nothing.

I should've left it there. Should've driven in silence. Let her prepare however she needed to prepare.

Instead, I glanced at her again.

Then again.

Too many times.

The dress caught the passing light. Made her skin glow amber then shadow then amber again. Her profile stayed steady. Jaw set. Shoulders straight. Like she was already bracing for impact. Like she'd decided whatever happened tonight, she'd survive it.