Page 85 of Broken Blades

"Don't worry." My voice came out soft. Dangerous. Loaded with exactly the kind of double meaning I wanted him choking on. "I'll keep her… satisfied."

Thomas practically combusted. His face flushed dark red. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. Every muscle in his body went rigid with barely restrained violence—the kind that proved he understood exactly what I was implying and hated that he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Chastity swatted my arm, oblivious to the subtext crackling between us. "Oh my gosh, stop being gross."

I didn't care. Didn't look away from her father. Just watched him struggle to maintain composure in front of his daughter—in front of the cameras—in front of the charity event he'd probably helped organize. Watched him wrestle with the reality that I had what he'd handed over. That I could touch her, kiss her, undress her with my eyes in public and he couldn't say a goddamn word without exposing why this arrangement existed in the first place.

It tasted like victory. Dark, bitter, satisfying victory.

Thomas's voice came out strained when he finally managed to speak. "We should… discuss boundaries."

I smiled wider. "I think we're past that, don't you? Don't worry, though." I turned to Thomas with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "I'm taking real good care of her."

Before he could respond—before he could say something that would force me to acknowledge the dangerous line I'd just crossed—I steered Chastity away. My hand stayed firmly at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd.

She waited exactly three seconds before rounding on me. "What is wrong with you?"

I kept walking. "Nothing."

"You just—you basically told my father we're—that you and I—" Her face flushed crimson. "Gosh, Wyatt!"

"Told him what?" I glanced down at her, all innocence. "That I help you with your zipper?"

She swatted my arm. Hard. "You know exactly what you implied!"

"Did I?"

"Yes!"

"Seemed pretty straightforward to me." I steered us around a family taking photos. "You needed help. I provided it."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're still holding my hand."

She looked down, startled, as if she'd forgotten our fingers were laced together. Started to pull away—then stopped. Caught between what she wanted to do and what she was supposed to do.

I smirked. "That's what I thought."

"I hate you."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

"Sure it is, sweetheart."

She opened her mouth to argue, but movement in my peripheral vision cut through the banter like ice water.

Two players. Rival team. Mid-twenties, too much confidence, eyes tracking through the crowd with the kind of predatory assessment I recognized because I'd worn it myself a thousand times.

Then their gazes landed on Chastity. Stopped. Lingered.

One of them elbowed the other, said something I couldn't hear but could absolutely interpret from the way his mouth curved into a slow grin.

My chest went nuclear. Instinctive in a way that had nothing to do with the arrangement, the plan, the revenge I'd been so carefully orchestrating.

I moved without thinking. My arm wrapped around Chastity's waist, pulling her flush against my side. Hard enough that she yelped softly, stumbled into me, her hands flying up to catch herself against my chest.