Wyatt #2
But even as I grabbed my stick, even as I pushed through the gate and glided onto the rink, even as I knelt down to high-five the first excited kid who barreled toward me, my eyes tracked back to her.
Checking. Confirming. Making sure she was still there, still safe, still untouched by anyone who didn't have permission. Possessiveness disguised as vigilance.
I told myself it was part of the act.
I was lying.
I sat on the bench and pulled on my skates with more force than necessary. Yanked the laces tight. Tied them off with sharp, efficient movements that kept my hands busy and my mind from wandering where it absolutely could not go.
Don't think about the kiss.
Don't think about how she'd tasted—sweet, surprised, soft in a way that made something primitive in my chest roar with satisfaction.
Don't think about the little gasp she'd made when my mouth had claimed hers, or the way her fingers had curled into my coat like she needed an anchor.
I focused on the skates instead. On the familiar ritual. The bite of cold metal against my palms. The muscle memory of preparing for the ice.
But even as I tightened the second skate, even as I stood and tested my weight, the question circled back.
Why did I kiss her?
Not for the cameras—they'd been too far away to capture the actual moment. Not for her father, who hadn't been watching yet. Not for the press, who'd only caught the aftermath.
I'd kissed her because she'd stumbled into me and looked up with those wide eyes and parted lips, and every careful plan I'd constructed had evaporated in the space of a heartbeat.
I'd kissed her because in that moment, she was mine. Not Harrington's daughter. Not leverage. Not part of the revenge. Just mine.
And that realization scared me more than any hit I'd ever taken on the ice.
I rolled my shoulders, tried to shake off the weight pressing against my ribs. This was supposed to be simple. Clinical. Use her to destroy her father, walk away clean.
But nothing about Chastity felt simple anymore.
A little girl skated up to me, wobbly on rental skates that were clearly two sizes too big. She couldn't have been more than seven. Pink coat. Sparkly helmet. Missing both front teeth.
She stopped directly in front of me, tilted her head way back to look up, and announced with absolute confidence: "You're scary-looking."
I blinked.
Her mother rushed over, mortified. "Emma! We don't say—"
"It's fine." I crouched down to the girl's level. "You're right. I am."
Emma grinned wider, gap-toothed and fearless.
The little girl tugged on my jersey, small fingers gripping the fabric like a lifeline. "Mister Wyatt? Can you help me?"
Something in my chest softened. The tension that had been coiled tight since the parking lot kiss, since Harrington's face, since everything—it eased.
I knelt on the ice, balancing easily on one knee. Reached for her skate with hands that suddenly felt too large, too rough for something this delicate.
"Let's fix that, yeah?"
She nodded eagerly, chattering about her favorite player (not me, thankfully—the pressure would've been too much), about how she'd never been skating before, about how her mom promised she could get hot chocolate after.
I tied the lace with careful precision. Double-knotted it. Tugged gently to make sure it held. "There. Try that."
She tested her weight, beamed up at me with pure, uncomplicated joy. "Thank you!"
Then she threw her arms around my neck in an impulsive hug before skating away with the kind of fearless abandon only kids possessed.
I smiled. Actually smiled. The kind I hadn't felt stretch across my face in months. Maybe years.
"Wyatt."
The voice slid across my skin like ice water. Warm. Sweet. Deadly. Every muscle in my body locked down. The smile died instantly, replaced by something cold and hardened and barely controlled.
I rose slowly. Turned.
She stood at the edge of the ice, one hand resting elegantly on the boards.
Chic winter coat—cashmere, probably. Makeup perfect.
Hair styled with the kind of casual precision that cost a fortune to achieve.
An investor badge hung from a lanyard around her neck, laminated proof of her legitimacy, her right to be here.
My ex-wife.
The woman who'd destroyed everything.
The wound in my chest throbbed—old scar tissue pulled too tight, never quite healed.
"Why are you here?" My voice came out flat. Controlled. Giving nothing away.
She smiled like we were old friends catching up at a reunion. "It's an investor event, Wyatt. I'm an investor." Her head tilted slightly. "Remember?"
Of course I remembered. Her company was merging with Harrington's. She was everywhere now—unavoidable, inescapable, a constant reminder of the betrayal that had nearly ended me.
I stared at her. Saw past the polished exterior to the woman who'd blown my life apart with a smile on her face. Who'd rewritten history until I became the villain in our story. Who'd walked away clean while I drowned in the wreckage.
Her voice dropped, took on that faux-concerned tone I'd learned to recognize as poison wrapped in silk. "You look good. Happier." A pause. "I know what you're doing with Chastity."
My entire body went rigid. Ice flooded my veins—not the comfortable cold of the rink, but something darker. Protective. Dangerous.
"Don't say her name."
The words came out sharp. Final. A warning she'd be smart to heed.
She tilted her head, studying me with that calculating expression I'd once mistaken for affection. "Your reputation was finally starting to recover, Wyatt. All that ugliness from before…" She trailed off delicately. "I'd hate to see you ruin it again."
My vision edged black at the corners. Heat surged through the cold—rage, pure and incandescent, barely contained beneath the surface.
She reached out to touch my arm—that familiar gesture she'd used a thousand times when we were married, when I'd believed her touch meant comfort instead of manipulation.
I stepped back sharply. Put distance between us like she was radioactive. "Don't touch me."
For the first time, her expression faltered. Just a crack in the facade—surprise, maybe hurt, definitely something she hadn't anticipated.
Good.
I turned to leave. To get away from her before I said something that would confirm every lie she'd ever told about my temper, my instability, my supposed violence.
Her voice followed me, soft and cutting. "Wyatt… don't hurt that girl. Not the way you hurt me." A beat. "She's a little young for you, isn't she?"
Cold flooded every cell in my body—arctic, absolute, the kind that preceded something catastrophic.
I turned my head slowly. Looked at her with eyes that had seen combat on ice, that had stared down men twice my size, that had learned to weaponize stillness.
"Actually, I prefer older men."
And there she was.