Page 49 of Broken Blades

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard enough to taste copper. Hard enough to stop myself from saying something I'd regret.

He continued as if I hadn't reacted at all. As if my silence was permission. "Our story is simple. We met at a charity event six months ago. You liked that I'm not eighteen."

Heat crawled up my neck. Fast. Mortifying. "I never said⁠—"

"You will."

Two words. Flat. Final. No room for negotiation.

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. My pulse pounded in my ears.

He kept going. Steady. Methodical. Like he was reading from a script he'd already memorized.

"You're sweet. Shy. Stayed away from the spotlight. Perfectly believable that you wanted privacy."

My hands curled into fists in my lap. Nails pressing crescents into my palms.

He made it sound so easy. So clean. Like he was describing someone else. Some perfect little girlfriend who existed only in his head.

My voice came out quieter than I wanted. Wavering at the edges. "And you?"

His mouth curved. Slow. Deliberate. That same almost-smile that never reached his eyes. "I'm the grumpy older guy who fell for you."

My heart stumbled. Just for a second. Just long enough for something warm and confusing to flicker in my chest before I could kill it.

I hated myself for it. Hated the way my body reacted without my permission. Hated the way those words—fell for you—landed softer than they should have. Because they weren't real. None of this was real. He didn't fall for me. He didn't even like me. He was playing a part. And I was the prop.

I forced my voice to stay steady. Forced my gaze to hold his even though every instinct screamed at me to look away. "You don't look like someone who falls for anyone."

His smirk deepened. Just a fraction. Just enough to make my stomach twist again. "Good thing you're such a good actress then."

The words sliced clean through whatever fragile composure I'd been clinging to.

I stood. Too fast. The couch cushion bounced slightly under the sudden shift in weight. "I'm not acting."

He tilted his head. Studied me like I was something mildly interesting under glass. "Sit down."

My legs locked. Spine rigid. Every muscle in my body screaming at me to stay exactly where I was.

"Sit. Down."

I sat. Hated myself for it. Hated the way my knees folded without permission. Hated the way my body obeyed before my brain caught up. Hated that he didn't have to raise his voice. Didn't have to move. Just said it twice, and I crumbled.

"Good girl."

The words crawled under my skin. Low and quiet and deliberate. Not praise. Ownership. Like he'd trained me to respond, and I'd passed some test I didn't know I was taking.

Heat flooded my face. Shame mixed with something I refused to name.

He stood. Moved around the coffee table with that same unhurried control. Each step measured. Purposeful. Like he had all the time in the world and knew I wasn't going anywhere.

He stopped directly in front of me.

Close.

Too close.

I sank backwards into the cushions without meaning to. My shoulders hit the backrest. Nowhere left to go.