Page 86 of Broken Blades

I didn't look at her. Kept my eyes locked on the two idiots across the arena. Stared them down with the kind of cold, unblinking intensity that had earned me my nickname. The look that promised consequences. The look that said touch what's mine and find out what happens.

They looked away immediately.

Good.

Smart.

My arm stayed exactly where it was—possessive, territorial, completely unnecessary for the cameras but absolutely necessary for the hot spike of something primal that had just punched through my carefully maintained control.

Chastity blinked up at me, confused. "What was that?"

"They were staring."

She followed my gaze, saw the two players now very deliberately looking anywhere else. "People stare, Wyatt. It's fine."

I shook my head once. Sharp. Final. "Not at you."

Her frown deepened. "Why not me?"

My jaw hardened. The answer came out before I could stop it, before I could filter it through the careful strategy that had guided every interaction up until this moment.

"Because you're with me."

She stared at me with those wide eyes that saw too much, processed too quickly, understood things I hadn't meant to reveal.

And only after I said it—only after those four words escaped and landed and couldn't be taken back—did I realize with absolute, terrifying clarity that I'd meant every syllable. Not because of the arrangement. Not because of the cameras. Not because of her father or the revenge or the carefully constructed lie we were selling to the world.

But because somewhere between the garden and the practice sessions and the kiss in the parking lot, she'd stopped being leverage.

And I had absolutely no idea what the hell to do about it.

The event coordinator waved me over with that aggressively cheerful smile people wore when they wanted something from you. "Wyatt! We're ready for you on the ice."

I nodded once. Didn't move.

My eyes stayed locked on Chastity, who stood exactly where I'd left her—tucked against the boards, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to be invisible.

Crowd everywhere. Press lurking at every angle. Men still staring despite my earlier warning. And Thomas fucking Harrington hovering somewhere in the VIP section, probably watching this entire interaction through binoculars and planning my murder.

I should've walked away. Should've done my job, skated with the kids, signed the sticks, played the role I'd been hired to play.

Instead, I hesitated.

For the first time in years, the ice felt secondary to something else. Someone else.

I stepped closer to her instead of away. Lowered my voice so only she could hear over the ambient noise of families and music and chaos.

"Stay where I can see you."

Not a request. A command.

Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. She put her hands on her hips—that stubborn tilt to her chin I was starting to recognize as trouble.

"You have to skate, Wyatt."

"That's not what I asked."

She swallowed. Something flickered across her face—fear? Uncertainty? Or maybe the shadow of whatever her ex had done that made her flinch at sudden movements, made her tense when voices got too loud.