Wyatt #2
She twisted, reaching back to free herself. The motion pulled the material tighter, wedging it deeper into winter-brittle wood.
Small laugh escaped her throat. Nervous. Mortified.
Great. Perfect.
I stepped forward before conscious thought caught up. Instinct overriding calculation.
Her fingers fumbled at the caught fabric, making it worse. The delicate material bunched, threatened to tear completely.
Hold still.
I didn't say it aloud. Didn't trust my voice.
My hands moved to the branch instead. Careful. Deliberate. Finding where silk twisted around dead wood.
She went rigid under my proximity. Breath held. Waiting.
I worked the fabric free slowly—one thread at a time, unwinding rather than pulling.
The hedge released its claim grudgingly, and the zipper giving way beneath my knuckles.
Metal teeth separating. Slow glide of the pull sliding downward, friction releasing with each millimeter of exposed skin.
Gravity taking over. The sound whispered between us—intimate, deliberate, impossible to mistake for anything but what it was.
Cold air rushed across her bare back. The dress gaped open from shoulder blade to lower spine. Lantern light caught smooth skin, the delicate architecture of vertebrae, the vulnerable curve where back met the fabric pooling at her waist.
She froze completely. Breath stopped. Body locked.
I saw it before she felt it—the exact moment realization dawned. The subtle shift in her shoulders. The fractional intake of breath that meant understanding just crashed through shock.
Then she felt the cold. Felt exposure. Felt my presence behind her, close enough that my breath probably ghosted across newly revealed skin.
Her spine stiffened. Shoulders drew together instinctively, trying to close what had opened.
But the damage was done.
I stood there, branch forgotten in my hand, fabric freed but not released.
Staring at the unmarked expanse of her back.
Twenty-one years of protection. Twenty-one years of her father's careful cultivation.
Twenty-one years of innocence and trust and believing the world was safe.
Undone by a hedge and gravity and my hands too close to something I had no business touching.
She made a sound—small, choked, mortified.
My chest tightened. Christ.
This wasn't the plan. Not yet. Not like this. But her zipper hung open in the winter garden, and paparazzi waited in positions I'd carefully arranged, and the opportunity I'd been waiting for just presented itself three chapters ahead of schedule.
Her hand reached back desperately, searching for the pull she couldn't reach.
Her hands shook.
"Oh, my gosh." She turned slightly away, shoulders curving inward. Protection instinct kicking in too late. Humiliated.
"I can't—" Her voice cracked. "I can't reach it."
She pressed her palms against the hedge for balance, fingers digging into branches dusted with snow. The movement made her back arch slightly, fabric slipping lower against her waist. Exposed. Vulnerable. Perfect.
"Please don't look at me." The words came out small. Desperate. Like she could will herself invisible if she asked hard enough.
Something dangerous shifted in my chest. Not lust—though Christ, she was beautiful standing there trying to disappear. Not even satisfaction at the plan accelerating ahead of schedule.
Power. Raw and absolute.
She needed me. Needed my hands to fix what had come undone. Needed me to cover what the night had exposed.
I controlled the next sixty seconds of her life. She just didn't know it yet.
I stepped behind her. Close enough that my body blocked the wind. Close enough that she'd feel my heat against her bare skin even through the space between us.
She went rigid. Breath stuttered audibly. I reached for the zipper pull, let my fingers brush the small of her back.
She inhaled sharply—sound catching in her throat, body jerking slightly forward before she forced herself still.
"Relax," I said. Low. Controlled. The voice I used on ice when younger players needed steadying.
She tried. I felt the effort in how her shoulders dropped half an inch, how her breathing deliberately slowed.
Good girl.
I pinched the zipper between thumb and forefinger and drew it upward. Slowly. Not hurried. Not rushed. Each tooth catching and releasing with quiet precision.
My knuckles grazed her spine as the metal climbed. Vertebrae under skin. Warmth radiating through silk. The subtle tremor running through her that she couldn't quite suppress.
She made a sound—barely audible. Somewhere between relief and something she probably didn't have words for yet.
I kept pulling. Kept my touch deliberate. Let each brush of knuckle against skin register as intentional rather than accidental.
She knew I was touching her. She knew I didn't have to. But she didn't pull away.
The wind picked up, carrying music from the ballroom. Laughter. Glasses clinking. The world continuing while we stood frozen in this moment.
I leaned closer—just enough that my breath would ghost across the nape of her neck when I spoke. "You're safe."
The lie tasted like ash.
I pulled the zipper home. Metal fastener clicking softly into place at the top of her dress.
But I didn't step back. Didn't give her the space she needed to turn, to thank me, to escape back to the safety of crowds and her father's protection.
I let the moment stretch instead. Let her feel me there—solid presence at her back, close enough to touch, close enough that moving would mean brushing against me. Ownership without contact.
She stood perfectly still, caught between gratitude and something her instincts screamed warnings about.
Smart girl.
Listen to those warnings.
But she wouldn't. I already knew that.
Movement in the corner of my vision. Right on time.
Flash.
The burst came sharp and white—professional camera, high-powered lens cutting through lantern glow and shadow.
Flash.
Second shot. Different angle.
The photographer had listened. Positioned exactly where I'd told him. Captured the moment I'd designed.
Her braced against stone. Me behind her, close enough that no camera could catch the actual distance between our bodies. Masks creating ambiguity. Her bare back and my hands on her zipper telling a story that had nothing to do with torn fabric.
Intimacy.
Secrecy.
Scandal.
She gasped—sharp intake of breath that meant the flashes registered even if comprehension lagged behind. Her body jerked forward instinctively, shoulders hunching like she could make herself smaller. Harder to photograph.
Too late.
I had what I needed.
She spun toward me, eyes wide behind her mask. "What was that?"
Fear in her voice. Confusion threading through mortification.
I stepped back immediately. Smooth. Unhurried. Put three feet of empty air between us like nothing had happened. Like I hadn't just orchestrated her ruin.
"Probably nothing." I kept my tone easy. Dismissive. "Security lights. They reset on timers."
Lie delivered clean.
She searched the darkness beyond the hedge archway—looking for shapes, movement, proof her instincts weren't wrong. Found nothing.
The photographer was already gone. Already uploading images to the burner server I'd set up. Already ensuring tomorrow morning would detonate exactly as planned.
She turned back, mouth opening to speak.
I was already moving. Stepped sideways into shadow where the lantern light died against winter hedges. Let darkness swallow my silhouette.
"Wait—" Her voice followed me. Uncertain. Still trying to understand what just happened.
I didn't stop. Didn't look back. Didn't give her the closure of watching me leave. Just disappeared.
Let her stand there alone in the garden, dress zipped, questions unanswered, unease crawling up her spine with nothing concrete to attach it to.
Perfect.
She'd go back inside soon. Find her father. Rejoin the performance. Convince herself the flashes were nothing. That the stranger in the garden was harmless.
She'd sleep tonight believing she was safe.
Tomorrow morning, the photographs would burn that belief to ash.
And I'd be there to offer comfort when her world collapsed.
I pushed through the hedge arch into deeper darkness.
The hunt had officially begun.