Page 5 of Broken Blades

We sat there in the candlelight; the torte going lukewarm between us. Somewhere above, I heard Mother's footsteps crossing the master bedroom. A closet door opening. Hangers sliding across a rod.

I took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Told myself this was normal—a mother preparing her daughter for an important event. A father sharing his passion. A family gathered around a table.

"Any boys I should worry about?"

Father leaned back in his chair, that familiar teasing glint in his eye—the one that appeared whenever he pretended to be concerned about my social life.

I looked away, focused on scraping the last smear of ganache from my plate. "You know I broke up with Brad right after fall semester started."

Which was true.

What I didn't say: the bruises that had bloomed purple along my ribs. The rope burns on my wrists. The way he'd laughed when I'd used our safe word, like it was part of the game. The scar on my hip bone where his belt buckle had torn skin—a thin white line I could still feel under my fingertips when I showered.

I'd told Madison it was over because of distance. Incompatibility. The usual college relationship death knells.

I definitely wasn't going to tell my father the real reason.

"I always liked Brad." Father swirled the dregs of his wine, studying them. "Sharp kid. Good instincts. I considered bringing him on for the merger, actually. Junior analyst position."

The torte turned heavy in my stomach. "Really?"

"His father and I golf together. The connection would've been⁠—"

"Would you like to try it on?"

Mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, the dress draped over her arm like spilled milk. White silk caught the amber light, shimmered. She paused, hand on the banister. "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting anything?"

"No." Father set down his glass. "Go ahead."

I stood quickly—too quickly, my chair scraping against hardwood. "Thanks for dinner."

Mother's smile returned. "Of course, sweetheart."

I followed her upstairs; the dress trailing behind her like a ghost. The hallway was dark except for the nightlight near the bathroom—the same one that had been there since I was six, shaped like a crescent moon.

She pushed open my bedroom door. Everything was exactly as I'd left it in August: the books alphabetized on their shelf, the debate team trophy centered on my desk, the comforter tucked hospital-corner tight.

"Here." She laid the dress across my bed. "I had them steam it last week, so it shouldn't have any wrinkles."

I touched the fabric. Cool silk, impossibly smooth. The kind of dress that required the right undergarments, the right shoes, the right posture.

"It's beautiful."

"It'll look better on you than it would have on me." She moved to the window, adjusted the curtain even though it was already straight. "You have my figure when I was your age. Before—" She stopped. Her hand dropped. "Well. Before."

I wanted to ask what she meant. Before what?

But she'd already turned back to me, smile fixed in place.

"Try it on," she said. "I want to see."

Chapter 2

Wyatt

The kid came at me blind side, all eighteen-year-old muscle and ambition. I saw him three strides out—the overextension in his reach; the weight shifted too far forward—and braced.

His shoulder connected with my ribs like a car door slamming shut.