Page 66 of Broken Blades

Then another man at a nearby table glanced over. Lingered. Assessed.

My spine went rigid.

It's because attention leads to questions, I told myself. Complications. Media risk. People speculating about motivations and timelines and whether this relationship makes sense.

But the truth settled in my chest with uncomfortable clarity. I didn't like other men looking at her. Period.

The waiter appeared—young, handsome, with the kind of easy smile that probably earned excellent tips. He set menus down between us, attention immediately gravitating toward Chastity.

"Welcome. Can I get you something to start?" His smile widened when she glanced up. Held her gaze a fraction too long.

My eyes cut upward with the quiet warning I'd perfected over years of establishing dominance on ice. The look that said back off without requiring words.

“Water,” I snipped.

“O-Of course.” He immediately went off to get it for us.

Sharp pressure struck my shin under the table. Chastity's shoe connecting with deliberate force.

"Stop," she whispered, leaning slightly forward so only I could hear.

"He's staring at you."

"He's a waiter."

"He's still staring."

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "you're ridiculous."

I muttered back, "And you're naïve."

Her eyes flashed—anger mixing with embarrassment mixing with something that looked almost like amusement. Like part of her found my territorial bullshit entertaining despite herself.

The waiter returned moments later carrying water glasses. He set hers down with extra care, fingers lingering on the stem longer than necessary.

"Let me know if you need anything else." Another smile. Another beat of attention focused entirely on her.

My voice dropped to that controlled flatness that made rookies nervous in the locker room. "She's taken."

The waiter froze mid-reach for his order pad. Color drained from his face.

Chastity's kick connected harder this time. Pain shot through my shin.

"What is wrong with you?!" Her whisper carried genuine outrage now. Mortification coloring her cheeks pink in the candlelight.

"He needed clarity."

"He needed to take our drink order!"

"He got both."

She pressed her palms flat against the table. Closed her eyes. Drew a slow breath like she was counting to ten. Or twenty. Or however high it took to not murder me in public.

When she opened them again, fury burned there alongside something else. Something that looked suspiciously like she was fighting a smile. "You're impossible."

"And you're still naïve if you think he was just being professional."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Then she laughed—quiet, disbelieving, dragged out against her will.