Wyatt #2
She went rigid. Entire body locked in place like I'd struck a nerve. Her pulse hammered against my forearm where it still rested below her ribs—frantic, honest, betraying every truth her mouth tried to deny.
I felt the exact moment realization hit her. The way her breathing stuttered. The way her hands trembled against her thighs. The way she stopped trying to pull away and just... froze. Caught. Exposed.
Vulnerable in ways that made something dangerous coil tight in my chest.
I lifted one hand slowly. Gave her time to see it coming, to understand the trajectory. Slid a single finger beneath her chin. Tilted her face toward mine with pressure so gentle it wouldn't bruise, wouldn't hurt, wouldn't leave marks—but left no room for escape.
Her eyes went wide. Panicked. Beautiful.
"You felt something."
The accusation landed like a verdict. Final. Undeniable.
Her lips parted. Breath shallow, rapid, uneven. "That's not—Wyatt, this is—"
She couldn't finish. Couldn't find words for what was happening between us—the shift from performance to something real, something dangerous, something neither of us had permission to want.
I saw it painted across her features. Terror and attraction warring for dominance, neither winning, both honest in ways that gutted me.
And that was the problem.
I was supposed to feel satisfaction. Victory. Another piece moved on the board, another step closer to destroying the man who'd destroyed me.
Instead I felt something else entirely. Something that whispered I'd miscalculated. That this girl—innocent, earnest, soft—wasn't just leverage anymore. She was becoming a complication I couldn't afford.
I released her. Immediately. Completely. Pulled my hand from her chin, from her waist, created distance with deliberate speed. Leaned back into the couch cushions and let my arms sprawl along the backrest—casual, unbothered, giving her the space she'd begged for. Permission to run.
She took it. Scrambled off my lap like I'd burned her, legs tangling in the panic. She actually stumbled—caught herself on the coffee table, knees hitting carpet with a soft thud that made me wince despite myself.
Her cheeks blazed crimson. Face flushed with humiliation and confusion and residual heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the awakening she refused to acknowledge.
She didn't look at me. Couldn't. Just pushed herself upright on shaking legs, arms wrapping protectively around her torso.
I watched her. Cataloged every micro-expression, every tremor, every defense mechanism slamming back into place.
My chest felt tight. Wrong. Like something had shifted inside the architecture of muscle and scar tissue—something I'd buried years ago after the affair, after the betrayal, after I'd learned the hard way that vulnerability meant destruction.
I'd pushed too far. Not physically. She'd been safe. I'd made sure of that—every touch measured, every pressure calculated, every boundary respected even as I tested it.
But emotionally? I'd crossed a line I hadn't meant to approach.
Worse—I'd wanted to cross it. Wanted to see that flush deepen.
Wanted to feel her surrender. Wanted her to stop fighting the pull between us and just...
admit it existed. Dangerous territory. For her.
For me. For this entire carefully constructed plan that was starting to feel less like revenge and more like something I couldn't name.
She finally spoke. Voice small, shaken, defensive. "I'll... I'll be ready for the charity skate."
Then she fled.
I listened to her footsteps pound up the stairs. Heard the guest room door slam. The lock click. Sat alone in the living room with coffee going cold and the ghost of her warmth still pressed against my chest. And one terrible, undeniable truth settling like lead in my gut. This was bad.
Not for the plan.
For me.
Because somewhere between forcing proximity and practicing touch, between calculated cruelty and protective instinct… I'd started wanting her for reasons that had nothing to do with Thomas Harrington.
I shoved myself off the couch before the thought could finish forming.
Practice. I had practice. Two hours of brutal conditioning, strategic drills, the bone-deep satisfaction of stick against puck and body against boards. Something that made sense. Something I controlled.
Something that wasn't her.
I grabbed my gym bag from the hallway, checked for gear I already knew was there. Moved on autopilot through rituals I'd performed ten thousand times—stick tape, water bottle, protein bar I wouldn't eat but packed, anyway.
My hands knew the rhythm. My body understood the sequence.
But my mind wouldn't shut up.
The sound she'd made when I'd kissed her wrist. That tiny, desperate gasp that had punched through every defense I'd built. The way her pulse had hammered against my lips—frantic, honest, wanting. The heat of her body pressed against mine, soft where I was hard, trembling where I stayed controlled.
I yanked the bag's zipper closed harder than necessary.
This was temporary. Thirty days of performance, then she'd go back to her perfect life, and I'd have what I came for—Harrington's reputation in ruins, his merger collapsing, his carefully curated image shattered.
That was the plan. That was always the plan.
Except plans didn't account for the way she'd started looking at me. Like I was something other than the monster everyone believed I was. Like maybe underneath the scars and the reputation and the cold calculation, there was something worth—
No.
I grabbed my keys. Headed for the door.
I'd bury this the same way I buried everything else—in ice, in speed, in the controlled violence of a sport that rewarded brutality and punished weakness.
Two hours of practice. That was all I needed. Just enough time to forget the warmth of her skin and the terrifying realization that somewhere along the way, revenge had started feeling like something else entirely.