Page 94 of Broken Blades

Wyatt blinked. Like he'd forgotten where we were. What we were supposed to be doing.

He dragged a hand through his hair. "Right. The kids."

But he didn't move. Just stood there watching me like he was trying to solve an equation that didn't add up.

And that was when he finally left.

I gripped the cold metal barrier, willing the heat in my face to fade. My pulse refused to cooperate—still racing from the confrontation, from Wyatt's proximity, from the mortifying echo of my own voice declaring I prefer older men like some kind of romance novel heroine who'd lost her mind.

The scrape of blades on ice pulled my attention toward the rink.

Wyatt emerged from the tunnel.

I braced myself for the sharp-edged man I'd come to know—the one who weaponized silence and turned every conversation into a power play. The one who kissed me like he owned me, then walked away like it meant nothing.

Instead, a little girl in a pink jacket charged straight at him. He dropped to one knee without hesitation. Let her crash into his chest with enough force to make him rock back on his skates. His hands steadied her automatically—gentle, careful, like she was made of glass.

She beamed up at him, gap-toothed and fearless.

My chest did something complicated.

A boy appeared next—maybe seven, struggling to balance on rental skates that looked three sizes too big. Wyatt rose smoothly, offered his hand. The kid grabbed it like a lifeline. They glided forward together, Wyatt's powerful strides shortened to match the wobbly, uneven pace beside him.

When the boy finally found his rhythm, Wyatt released him. Hovered close enough to catch him if he fell but far enough to let him feel independent.

The boy didn't fall. He grinned so wide I could see it from twenty feet away.

Wyatt's expression softened. Just a fraction. Just enough.

Another child tugged on his sleeve—a tiny thing bundled in winter gear, barely reaching his waist. She held up a hockey stick almost as tall as she was, face hopeful and pleading.

Wyatt took it without question. Pulled a marker from his pocket like he'd anticipated this exact request. He signed it carefully, then crouched down to her level. Said something I couldn't hear. Whatever it was made her throw her arms around his neck.

He froze for half a second—surprised—then returned the hug with a gentleness that physically hurt to watch.

Because this man, this terrifying, scarred, complicated man who'd kissed me like he was claiming territory, who'd orchestrated scandal and manipulation—this man held that child like she mattered. Like her happiness meant something.

A teenager in a wheelchair waited by the boards. Wyatt skated over immediately. Didn't make a show of it. Didn't call attention. Just stopped and leaned against the barrier like they were old friends catching up.

The kid's face lit up. They talked for several minutes—about hockey, maybe, or life, or nothing important. But the boy's shoulders straightened. His smile grew wider with every passing second.

When Wyatt finally skated away, he left his Serpents hat behind. Placed it carefully on the boy's head with a nod that looked almost… proud.

My throat tightened.

A toddler appeared next—barely steady on his feet, clinging to a parent's hand. Wyatt glanced at him, then deliberately stumbled. Let himself go down in an exaggerated heap of limbs and dramatic groaning.

The toddler laughed. Actually laughed—bright and pure and delighted.

Wyatt lay there on the ice for a beat too long, letting the kid "win" whatever imaginary race they'd been having. Then he rose, brushed himself off, and gave the toddler a solemn high-five.

The cameras captured it all. Every moment. Every smile. Every gentle touch.

But they couldn't capture what I saw from here—the way his entire body changed around these kids. The way his shoulders dropped. The way his jaw unclenched. The way he became… softer. Real.

Not the villain my father painted him as.

Not the vengeful ex-husband.