Page 75 of Broken Blades

"We have the charity skate today. Cameras'll be right on us."

She nodded. Swallowed hard enough I could track the movement down her throat.

"You'll panic again if we don't run through more physical contact."

Her spine went rigid. Arms tightened around herself. "I'm trying."

"You're overthinking."

I took the coffee mug from the counter. Set it down with deliberate care. Let the ceramic clink fill the charged silence.

Then I stepped closer.

She didn't retreat this time. Not fully. Just shifted weight like she was considering it, calculating escape routes her body had already started forgetting.

Progress.

I let the smirk curve slow. Predatory. Dropped onto the couch. Spread my knees. Patted my thigh once—sharp, commanding.

"Sit."

Her breath stopped. Actually stopped. Chest frozen mid-inhale, eyes wide with something between shock and something darker she wasn't ready to name.

"W-what?"

"Sit on my lap."

The panic hit immediate. Full-body. Beautiful in its transparency. "Wyatt⁠—"

"If I pull you into my lap in public, and you scream like a startled squirrel, everyone will know it's fake. Practice."

I kept my tone flat. Clinical. Left no room for negotiation or escape.

Her throat worked again. Hands twisted together, knuckles white. But she moved. Slowly. Hesitantly. Like approaching live ordinance.

She perched on the edge of my thigh, rigid as steel, barely making contact.

Not good enough.

My hands shifted automatically—one to her hip, fingers splaying across the curve there, the other steadying her lower back. Drew her in properly, settled her weight against me.

She made a small sound. Choked off, strangled, desperate.

I felt every inch of it.

The tremor that ran through her. The way her breathing went shallow, rapid, uneven. The heat bleeding through thin leggings and my joggers like friction waiting to ignite. Her hands hovered uselessly, unsure where to land, before settling tentatively on my shoulder—light, barely there, like she might bolt any second.

"Relax." The command came rougher than intended.

"I can't—this is⁠—"

"Breathe."

She did. Shaky, unsteady, but she did.

I adjusted my grip. Firmer. Anchoring. Let my thumb trace small circles against her hip bone—slow, deliberate, grounding. Watched her pupils dilate. Watched her pulse hammer against the delicate skin of her throat. Watched her body fight between fear and something far more dangerous.

"This is what it'll look like," I said quietly. "When I pull you close for photos. When fans ask for pictures together. When reporters crowd us and I need you right here."