Page 68 of Broken Blades

She laughed. Actually laughed—not the nervous sound from the café or the shocked disbelief from earlier. Real amusement that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her whole face transform.

I looked down at the exact moment her lashes fluttered. Caught the way candlelight played across her features. The softness there. The genuine warmth she probably didn't realize she was radiating.

And it hit me.

This.

Right now.

This felt like what a real date might feel like.

The thought landed with brutal clarity. Unwelcome. Dangerous. Completely unacceptable.

Don't go there.

I cut it off hard. Immediate. Like severing a limb before infection spread.

Stay focused.

She's Harrington's daughter.

This is revenge.

Nothing more.

But when she smiled at something I said—some dry observation about the couple behind us definitely breaking up—my chest tightened, anyway. Squeezed with something I refused to name. Refused to acknowledge. Refused to let exist beyond this single treacherous moment.

I looked away. Focused on my plate. Forced the feeling down where it belonged.

Buried.

The paparazzi multiplication outside felt inevitable. By the time we finished dinner, at least six photographers had gathered on the sidewalk. More than at arrival. Word had spread. The Instagram post was still trending. Every moment we existed in public together fed the machine.

Chastity froze when she saw them through the window. Her shoulders went rigid. That tell-tale tension I'd started recognizing—the physical manifestation of her bracing for exposure she'd never wanted.

"Ready?" I kept my voice neutral. Professional. The distance I needed between us.

She nodded once. Stood. Smoothed her dress with those nervous fingers.

We stepped outside into air that had dropped ten degrees since we'd arrived. The cold hit immediately—sharp, cutting, winter asserting itself.

She shivered. Small movement. Involuntary.

My jacket was off before thought caught up with action. I draped it around her shoulders, fingers brushing the bare skin at her collarbone as I adjusted the weight. Her sharp inhale cut through the cold air. Through the camera flashes. Through every rational defense I'd been constructing.

She looked up at me. Eyes wide. Soft. Surprised in a way that suggested kindness wasn't what she expected from this arrangement. "You didn't have to⁠—"

"You're mine."

The words came out rough. Honest. Completely unplanned.

Her expression shifted. Something vulnerable flickering across her features before she could hide it behind the practiced composure her father had trained into her.

Shit.

I stepped back. Created space. Regained the distance that kept this arrangement clean and simple and focused on its actual purpose.

Except nothing about tonight had been clean or simple.