Page 77 of Broken Blades

Her entire body reacted⁠—

A tiny gasp that punched through careful control. A full-body shiver that rolled through her like aftershock. A stuttering heartbeat I felt against my chest, my forearm, the sensitive skin of my lips.

I felt all of it. Every surrender. Every denial. Every terrified realization that her body had stopped listening to the rules her mind kept trying to enforce.

Her voice barely whispered. Broken. Confused. "Why… why did you do that?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't. Not honestly. Because the honest answer was dangerous. Unplanned. Real in ways that threatened the entire architecture I'd built.

I let her wrist go—but not fully.

My hand stayed wrapped around hers. Fingers threaded through delicate bones. Possessive. Anchoring. Wrong.

I felt her confusion bleeding through skin-to-skin contact. Her panic rising like a tide. Her want buried underneath everything else, denied and desperate and absolutely undeniable.

And inside me? Something sharp. Territorial. Instinctive. Something that whispered she wasn't leverage anymore. She was mine.

The thought detonated.

She jerked forward suddenly, muscles tensing to escape.

My hand tightened on her waist. Not hard. Not painful. Just firm enough to communicate Not yet.

"Where are you going?"

Her voice came out strangled, desperate. "I—I need space."

Wrong answer.

I leaned in. Let my breath ghost against her ear, voice dropping to something dark and intimate and absolutely deliberate. "That's the problem, sweetheart. You run every time you feel something."

She went rigid. Entire body locked in place like I'd struck a nerve. Her pulse hammered against my forearm where it still rested below her ribs—frantic, honest, betraying every truth her mouth tried to deny.

I felt the exact moment realization hit her. The way her breathing stuttered. The way her hands trembled against her thighs. The way she stopped trying to pull away and just... froze. Caught. Exposed.

Vulnerable in ways that made something dangerous coil tight in my chest.

I lifted one hand slowly. Gave her time to see it coming, to understand the trajectory. Slid a single finger beneath her chin. Tilted her face toward mine with pressure so gentle it wouldn't bruise, wouldn't hurt, wouldn't leave marks—but left no room for escape.

Her eyes went wide. Panicked. Beautiful.

"You felt something."

The accusation landed like a verdict. Final. Undeniable.

Her lips parted. Breath shallow, rapid, uneven. "That's not—Wyatt, this is⁠—"

She couldn't finish. Couldn't find words for what was happening between us—the shift from performance to something real, something dangerous, something neither of us had permission to want.

I saw it painted across her features. Terror and attraction warring for dominance, neither winning, both honest in ways that gutted me.

And that was the problem.

I was supposed to feel satisfaction. Victory. Another piece moved on the board, another step closer to destroying the man who'd destroyed me.

Instead I felt something else entirely. Something that whispered I'd miscalculated. That this girl—innocent, earnest, soft—wasn't just leverage anymore. She was becoming a complication I couldn't afford.

I released her. Immediately. Completely. Pulled my hand from her chin, from her waist, created distance with deliberate speed. Leaned back into the couch cushions and let my arms sprawl along the backrest—casual, unbothered, giving her the space she'd begged for. Permission to run.