Page 81 of Broken Blades

The atmosphere shifted instantly. His grip tightened on the wheel—knuckles going white. A beat of silence stretched between us, taut and dangerous. He didn't look at me.

"Don't bring her up."

I pressed forward anyway, voice smaller than I intended. "I just thought⁠—"

"I said don't."

The warning sliced through the air—sharp, final, leaving no room for negotiation.

I nodded quickly, swallowing the questions burning in my throat. I didn't understand what I'd touched. But I knew with absolute certainty I wouldn't touch it again.

The rest of the drive passed in weighted silence. His jaw remained tight. His breathing controlled but not quite even.

And I sat there wondering what kind of wound I'd just brushed against. What kind of pain lived behind those scars. What his ex-wife had done to make a man like Wyatt—a man who controlled every room he entered, who commanded without raising his voice, who moved through the world like he owned it—go completely still at just the mention of her.

The arena came into view through the windshield. Lights. Crowds. News vans already parked along the curb.

Wyatt pulled into a reserved spot and cut the engine. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he turned to me. Eyes dark. Unreadable. "When we get out of this car, you're mine."

My breath caught.

"Understood?"

I nodded.

Because what else could I do?

The arena parking lot buzzed with life.

Parents bundled in scarves. Kids clutching hockey sticks too big for their hands. Photographers positioned along the barriers like sentries. Snow drifted down in soft, lazy flakes that caught in the glow of string lights strung between lampposts.

A massive banner stretched across the entrance. "SERPENTS WINTER WISHES SKATE."

Lights twinkled everywhere—wrapped around railings, woven through trees, casting everything in soft gold. Families lined up for photos. Players already on the ice wore Santa hats, laughing as they helped wobbly children skate circles. Music played—something upbeat and seasonal that didn't quite match the sharp winter air.

It was… magical. Wholesome. Nothing like the man beside me.

Wyatt turned off the engine. The sudden silence pressed in—intimate, expectant.

His hand rested on the gearshift. Mine stayed folded in my lap.

He turned to me. Eyes darker in the low light. Expression unreadable. "Ready?"

I nodded, breath already misting in the cold air seeping through the car.

He pushed open his door. Rounded the front of the car with that controlled, predatory grace that made people instinctively move out of his way. Then he opened mine.

I stepped out carefully, hyperaware of the cameras already swiveling toward us. Hyperaware of the murmurs rippling through the crowd. Hyperaware of how exposed I suddenly felt under all those watching eyes.

My heel hit ice.

I didn't see it—didn't register the slick patch hidden beneath fresh powder—until my ankle twisted sideways and the ground rushed up to meet me.

I stumbled. Hard. Directly into his chest. Solid. Broad. Warm even through the layers of his coat.

I braced for the instinctive recoil—the flinch, the panic, the sharp intake of breath that always came when someone invaded my space too quickly. The same reaction that used to claw up my throat whenever my ex crowded me against counters or cornered me in doorways.

But there was nothing. No panic. No fear.