Page 69 of Broken Blades

"Wyatt! Over here!" A photographer's voice cut through the noise. "You in love?"

The question hit like a physical blow. Crude. Invasive. The kind of boundary-crossing that happened when people forgot athletes were human.

Chastity went rigid beside me. Not just tense—brittle. Like she might shatter under the weight of speculation and cameras and this entire performance we'd been maintaining.

My arm wrapped around her waist. Pure reflex. Pure protective instinct that had no business existing in a relationship built on blackmail and revenge.

I pulled her closer. Felt her body align against mine. Felt the tremor running through her that might've been cold or might've been something else entirely.

My voice dropped to that dangerous flatness. The tone that made opposing teams nervous. "Back off."

The photographer actually stepped backward. Lowered his camera slightly. Read the warning in my posture and decided not to test it.

Chastity looked up at me with this new expression. Not the fear from our first meeting. Not the disdain from yesterday morning. Not even the reluctant tolerance from dinner. Curiosity. Interest.

Something that made every carefully constructed wall between us feel suddenly, dangerously fragile.

And I realized with uncomfortable clarity: this arrangement was becoming exponentially more complicated than I'd planned.

Chapter 13

Chastity

I woke with a single, furious truth clawing at my chest. I'd liked him last night. Not much. Not fully. Not in any way that mattered or meant something dangerous. But enough. Enough that the realization landed like betrayal—of myself, of my judgment, of every rational instinct that should've kept me armored against whatever game he was playing.

I wasn't terrified anymore. That was the problem. The progression felt inevitable in hindsight—fear dulling into wary tolerance, tolerance softening into something approaching comfort. I'd laughed at his observations. Actually laughed, genuine amusement spilling out before I could stop it. Let him drape his jacket over my shoulders without flinching. Let myself lean into his solid warmth when the paparazzi surged forward with their invasive questions and relentless cameras.

Unacceptable.

All of it.

I stared at the ceiling, morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains in this guest room that felt less temporary with each passing day. My chest felt tight with the kind of anger that came from disappointment in oneself. I'd promised I wouldn't get comfortable. Wouldn't let his calculated touches and surprising moments of protection blur the fundamental truth of this arrangement.

He was the villain. The architect of this humiliation. The man using me as leverage against my father in some old grudge I still didn't fully understand.

Today, I was fixing it. Recalibrating. Rebuilding the walls that had started crumbling somewhere between his jacket around my shoulders and his arm around my waist and that rough honesty when he'd said he didn't like seeing me cold.

I dressed with intention. Leggings. Oversized sweater that swallowed my frame. Hair yanked into a high ponytail tight enough to give me a headache. The uniform of someone determinedly neutral. Unfuckable. Completely, aggressively unavailable for whatever unspoken shift had been building between us.

The mirror reflected exactly what I wanted: a woman prepared for battle, not romance.

I walked downstairs rehearsing frost. Distance. The kind of polite coldness that would reset boundaries without explanation.

Then I saw him.

Joggers riding low on his hips. Fitted long-sleeve shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the architecture of muscle underneath. Hair still damp from a shower, pushed back carelessly. He stood at the kitchen counter scrolling through his phone, coffee steaming beside him, looking unfairly comfortable in his own skin.

My brain short-circuited. Just—stopped processing rational thought for one traitorous moment.

No. Why is it always the damned sweatpants?

I blinked hard. Forced my attention to the coffee maker instead of the way that shirt stretched across his shoulders. Focus. Ice. Distance. All the things I'd promised myself upstairs.

"Morning." The word came out clipped. Sharp enough to cut.

He glanced up. Those dark eyes swept over me once—comprehensive assessment in a single look—before his mouth curved slightly. "You look like you're going to war."

The observation landed too accurately. I glared, irritation sparking hot because of course he'd see through the armor I'd barely finished constructing. Not a great start to rebuilding my defenses.