Page 65 of Broken Blades

That determination did something dangerous inside my chest. Something I immediately shoved down and locked away because it had no place in this arrangement.

She wasn't supposed to be brave. She was supposed to be fragile. Breakable. A weapon I could wield against her father without feeling guilty about the collateral damage.

But sitting there in that black dress with her hands folded and her spine straight, preparing for whatever fresh hell I was about to drag her into…

She didn't look breakable at all. And that was going to be a problem.

The restaurant sat three blocks from downtown, tucked between buildings that cost more than most people made in a lifetime. Valet parking. Brass fixtures. Windows that glowed warm against the darkening sky.

I pulled up to the entrance and killed the engine. Two photographers already waited on the sidewalk. More than I'd anticipated. Less than I'd feared.

I stepped out first. Rounded the hood. Reached for her door handle while scanning the crowd with practiced efficiency—assessing angles, counting cameras, cataloging escape routes I'd never need but always mapped, anyway.

The door swung open. She stepped out into the cooling air and the camera flashes detonated like small bombs. Her entire body flinched. Sharp. Involuntary. The kind of physical recoil that comes before thought can stop it.

My hand found hers before I registered the decision to move. Not a careful, calculated touch designed for maximum photographic impact. Not the rehearsed intimacy we'd practiced in my living room while she'd sat stiff and resentful on my couch.

Instinct.

Pure protective instinct that had no business existing in an arrangement built entirely on leverage and revenge.

Her fingers closed around mine immediately. Tight. Seeking anchor. Seeking something stable in the chaos of light and noise and strangers documenting her existence without permission. The pressure of her grip traveled straight up my arm and lodged somewhere behind my sternum where it had absolutely no right to settle.

Get it together.

She's not yours.

She's a means to an end.

The words cycled through my head on repeat. Rational. Necessary. True.

But my hand stayed locked around hers, anyway. Held her steady while flashes continued exploding around us. Kept her grounded while I guided her toward the restaurant entrance with my body angled to block the worst of the cameras' hungry attention.

She pressed closer to my side. Not performance. Not calculation. Simple human need for protection from exposure she'd never asked for.

I felt the tremor running through her fingers. Saw the way her breathing had gone shallow. Noticed how she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead instead of acknowledging the photographers calling her name—my name—our names together like we'd always been a unit instead of strangers forced into proximity by blackmail and desperation.

The restaurant door opened. Warm air and quiet music spilled out. Safety waited three steps away.

I didn't let go of her hand until we'd crossed the threshold and the door swung shut behind us, cutting off the chaos outside.

Only then did her fingers slip free. Only then did I realize I'd been holding on tighter than necessary.

The hostess led us through the restaurant with practiced efficiency, navigating tables packed with Friday night diners who didn't bother hiding their stares. I felt Chastity tense beside me as recognition rippled through the room. Phones emerged. Whispers started.

Our table sat in the back corner. Candlelit. Intimate. The kind of romantic setup designed for couples who actually wanted to be here.

I hadn't requested it. The restaurant had made assumptions based on the reservation name. Based on the Instagram post that was still trending. Based on the narrative we'd carefully constructed. Assumptions that made this whole performance feel uncomfortably real.

Chastity slid into her seat and immediately smoothed her dress with both hands. Nervous gesture. Self-soothing. Her fingers moved across the fabric in careful, deliberate strokes—adjusting what didn't need adjusting, controlling what she could control when everything else felt chaotic.

I watched those fingers longer than necessary. Caught myself tracking the movement. The delicate bones. The way candlelight made her skin glow warm against the black fabric.

Stop.

I forced my attention to the menu. Scanned options I didn't process. Tried to focus on anything except the growing awareness that this arrangement was becoming dangerously complicated.

Movement caught my peripheral vision. A man at the bar had turned on his stool, gaze locked on our table. On her. His expression held that particular blend of curiosity and interest that made my jaw tighten reflexively.