Page 73 of Broken Blades

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

I jerked back. Put three feet between us in the span of a heartbeat, chest heaving like I'd sprinted instead of stood still while he systematically dismantled every boundary I'd tried establishing.

"Can we take a break?!"

The words came out too loud. Too desperate. Exactly the kind of vulnerability I'd promised myself I wouldn't show.

Wyatt watched me. Studied me with that infuriating calm that suggested he was reading every thought I was desperately trying to bury, cataloging every reaction, every tell, every crack in my defenses.

His jaw shifted slightly. The only indication that something had registered beneath that controlled exterior.

"Fine."

Single word. Flat delivery. But his eyes tracked me as I wrapped arms around myself, as I turned away to stare out windows showcasing a backyard I hadn't explored, as I fought to regulate breathing that had absolutely nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how solid he'd felt against me.

How right it had felt, for one traitorous moment, before panic kicked in.

I hated myself a little for that thought. Hated him more for creating circumstances where my body was learning to crave proximity I absolutely couldn't afford to want.

I dropped onto the couch, fanning my face with trembling fingers. The air felt too thick. Too warm. My skin buzzed with residual heat from where his arm had wrapped around me, where his hand had anchored against my waist like he had every right to that territory.

My heart refused to calm. Kept hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape the cage of my chest.

Wyatt took the chair across from me. Not the couch—maintaining distance I desperately needed even as some traitorous part of me registered the space between us as loss rather than relief.

He watched me fan myself with an expression I couldn't read. "Still scared of me?"

The question landed softer than expected. Not mocking. Just... genuine curiosity wrapped in that dark certainty he wielded like armor.

I swallowed hard. "No."

The lie tasted wrong on my tongue. Incomplete. Because fear was part of it, but not the whole truth. Not even close.

"Not exactly."

His eyebrow lifted. Waiting. "Then what?"

The real answer clawed at my throat, desperate for release. I'm scared of how my body reacts to you. Scared that standing pressed against your chest felt natural instead of threatening. Scared that I'm starting to crave the solid warmth of you anchoring me when cameras flash and strangers crowd too close.

I couldn't say any of that. Wouldn't give him that ammunition.

So I stayed silent. Let the question hang unanswered between us while my pulse gradually slowed to something approaching normal.

He leaned back in the chair, all controlled power and unfair patience. Like he had all the time in the world to wait for truths I'd never willingly surrender.

"We'll get through this."

Four words. Simple. Matter-of-fact. But something in the delivery—the unexpected gentleness threading through his usual bluntness—made my chest tighten.

"I'm trying." My voice came out smaller than intended.

He nodded once. "You did better than yesterday."

The words hit differently than they should have. Landed with weight I hadn't expected—approval I didn't realize I'd been seeking until it settled warm in my chest.

That actually means something.