Page 72 of Broken Blades

"—but because you need to."

My heart stuttered traitorously. I ignored it. Ignored the way that pause had felt significant, had suggested complications neither of us wanted to acknowledge.

He circled behind me before I could protest. I tracked him through peripheral vision, every muscle tensing as he disappeared from sight.

Then his hand settled against the small of my back. Light pressure. Nothing forceful.

I froze anyway.

"Breathe."

The command registered through the static of panic that wasn't quite panic. More like hyper-awareness of every point where his palm made contact through the thick sweater, heat spreading outward in concentric circles I absolutely hated acknowledging.

I dragged air into lungs that had forgotten how breathing worked.

His hand stayed. Steady. Certain. "This is the most common paparazzi pose. Easy. Try to walk forward."

I stepped. He moved with me, hand remaining constant against my lower back—guiding without forcing, present without demanding.

Heat spread through my body with each movement, unwelcome awareness blooming everywhere his touch anchored. My skin felt too sensitive. My breath came too shallow.

I hated it. Hated how natural his hand felt there. Hated that my body was already learning to recognize his presence as something other than threat.

He moved in front of me again before I'd fully recovered from the first exercise. Predatory efficiency in every shift of his weight, like he'd already mapped out the next three moves while I struggled to process the current one.

"Next."

I didn't like the certainty in that single word.

His hand found my waist. Not low enough to cross lines, not high enough to feel casual. Just firm. Anchoring. The kind of touch that communicated ownership without saying a word.

Air caught in my throat—sharp inhale that betrayed exactly how affected I was by contact I should've been immune to after last night's dinner.

"Don't tense."

Easy for him to say. His hand felt like a brand through the thick sweater I'd deliberately chosen for armor. Heat radiated from those fingers, seeped through fabric until my skin registered every point of contact with humiliating precision.

"This is—" I swallowed. "This is weird."

His mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. Something darker. "Because you're thinking about it. Stop thinking."

My face detonated with heat. Stop thinking. Like I could just shut down every alarm screaming in my head, every instinct cataloging the danger of letting my body grow accustomed to his hands on me.

He stepped closer.

The distance evaporated until our bodies almost touched—not quite contact, but close enough that I felt the shift in air pressure, the warmth radiating off him, the overwhelming presence that made breathing feel like a competitive sport.

"This will happen when we pose together."

My pulse hammered. "That close?"

His eyes held mine. Dark. Unreadable. Something dangerous flickering in depths I couldn't name. "Closer."

Before I could process the warning, his arm slid around me fully. Drew me against his chest with the kind of controlled strength that left zero question about who controlled this proximity, this moment, this entire fucked-up arrangement.

A sound escaped—small, involuntary. Somewhere between protest and something I absolutely refused to examine.

His eyes flicked down immediately. The shift in his expression lasted maybe half a second. Awareness flickering across features normally locked in careful neutrality. Something hungry and quickly buried that made my stomach drop and heat simultaneously.