Page 98 of Broken Blades

Chastity stared up at me with eyes too bright, cheeks flushed pink from that ridiculous sugared drink, smile wide and absolutely devastating.

"Wyatt." She tugged on my wrist. "Dance with me."

I lifted a brow. "No."

"Please."

That single word—breathy, hopeful, genuine—short-circuited something in my brain. Flipped a switch I didn't know existed. Made every logical reason to refuse dissolve into nothing.

Before I could process what was happening, she dragged me through the crowd.

Bodies pressed close. Heat and noise swallowed us whole. She pulled me into the center of the chaos and turned, already moving to the beat.

She wasn't a good dancer.

God, she was adorable.

She swayed her hips awkwardly, hair bouncing with each movement, completely off-rhythm but entirely committed. Her smile stretched wide and bright like this was the best night of her life. Like standing in a packed dive bar with strangers and terrible music was somehow magical.

I stood stiff. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching her.

She stepped closer. Close enough I caught her scent beneath the beer and sweat—something clean and soft that didn't belong here. Didn't belong with me.

Her hands slid up my chest. Slow. Deliberate. Palms flat against my shirt like she had every right to touch me.

My breath stopped.

"Come on." She tilted her head, smile turning playful. "Don't be so serious."

Something inside me cracked. Melted. Gave way to heat I couldn't control anymore.

I uncrossed my arms. Put one hand on her waist.

Her breath caught. Audible even over the music. Eyes widening just slightly as my fingers spread against the curve of her hip, anchoring her in place.

She didn't pull away. Didn't tense. Just kept swaying, kept smiling, kept looking at me like I wasn't broken and scarred and using her for revenge.

I leaned down—close enough to almost kiss her, close enough to feel her breath against my mouth—and murmured low, voice rough with something I refused to name.

"You're trouble, Chastity Harrington."

She laughed. Bright and reckless and completely unguarded. The sound hit me square in the chest, burrowed deep, took root somewhere I couldn't reach to tear it out.

Her hands slid higher. Wrapped around my neck. Pulled me closer until our bodies aligned, until I could feel every curve pressed against me, until there was no space left between us to hide in.

"Maybe." Her voice was soft. Teasing. Deadly. "But you like it."

She wasn't wrong.

That was the problem.

I tightened my grip on her waist. Drew her impossibly closer. Let myself move with her—just slightly, just enough to make this look real for anyone watching. Told myself it was still performance. Still strategy. Still part of the plan.

But her fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of my neck and every lie I'd been telling myself shattered.

This wasn't performance anymore. Hadn't been for a while. And when she smiled up at me—flushed and happy and so goddamn beautiful it hurt—I knew I was in serious trouble.

The kind that ended badly. The kind I couldn't stop even if I wanted to.