Page 87 of Broken Blades

Her voice softened. Lost that defensive edge. "I'll be fine. Go."

I didn't like it. Didn't like leaving her exposed. Didn't like the way vulnerability looked on her when she was trying so hard to be brave.

But the coordinator was waving again, more insistent this time. Kids were lining up at the gate. Cameras were positioned and ready.

I forced myself to step back. Forced my feet to carry me toward the ice.

But even as I grabbed my stick, even as I pushed through the gate and glided onto the rink, even as I knelt down to high-five the first excited kid who barreled toward me, my eyes tracked back to her. Checking. Confirming. Making sure she was still there, still safe, still untouched by anyone who didn't have permission. Possessiveness disguised as vigilance.

I told myself it was part of the act.

I was lying.

I sat on the bench and pulled on my skates with more force than necessary. Yanked the laces tight. Tied them off with sharp, efficient movements that kept my hands busy and my mind from wandering where it absolutely could not go.

Don't think about the kiss.

Don't think about how she'd tasted—sweet, surprised, soft in a way that made something primitive in my chest roar with satisfaction.

Don't think about the little gasp she'd made when my mouth had claimed hers, or the way her fingers had curled into my coat like she needed an anchor.

I focused on the skates instead. On the familiar ritual. The bite of cold metal against my palms. The muscle memory of preparing for the ice.

But even as I tightened the second skate, even as I stood and tested my weight, the question circled back.

Why did I kiss her?

Not for the cameras—they'd been too far away to capture the actual moment. Not for her father, who hadn't been watching yet. Not for the press, who'd only caught the aftermath.

I'd kissed her because she'd stumbled into me and looked up with those wide eyes and parted lips, and every careful plan I'd constructed had evaporated in the space of a heartbeat.

I'd kissed her because in that moment, she was mine. Not Harrington's daughter. Not leverage. Not part of the revenge. Just mine.

And that realization scared me more than any hit I'd ever taken on the ice.

I rolled my shoulders, tried to shake off the weight pressing against my ribs. This was supposed to be simple. Clinical. Use her to destroy her father, walk away clean.

But nothing about Chastity felt simple anymore.

A little girl skated up to me, wobbly on rental skates that were clearly two sizes too big. She couldn't have been more than seven. Pink coat. Sparkly helmet. Missing both front teeth.

She stopped directly in front of me, tilted her head way back to look up, and announced with absolute confidence: "You're scary-looking."

I blinked.

Her mother rushed over, mortified. "Emma! We don't say⁠—"

"It's fine." I crouched down to the girl's level. "You're right. I am."

Emma grinned wider, gap-toothed and fearless.

The little girl tugged on my jersey, small fingers gripping the fabric like a lifeline. "Mister Wyatt? Can you help me?"

Something in my chest softened. The tension that had been coiled tight since the parking lot kiss, since Harrington's face, since everything—it eased.

I knelt on the ice, balancing easily on one knee. Reached for her skate with hands that suddenly felt too large, too rough for something this delicate.

"Let's fix that, yeah?"