Chastity
I stood in front of the guest room mirror, fingers smoothing the deep navy fabric over my hips for the third time.
The dress wasn't provocative. Long sleeves that were lace, more teasing than seductive. Delicate neckline that revealed nothing but collarbone. A soft shimmer when light caught the material—elegant, warm, the kind of thing my mother would approve of for a charity event.
The only thing risque was that it stopped mid-thigh.
Classy. Conservative. Safe.
So why did my pulse hammer like I was doing something dangerous?
I adjusted the fall of fabric one last time. Checked my hair—simple waves, nothing dramatic. Minimal makeup. Pearl earrings.
Perfect. Acceptable. Unthreatening.
Except my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Because downstairs, Wyatt was waiting. And ever since this morning—since his mouth on my wrist, since the heat of his chest against my back, since that low command that had unraveled something inside me—I couldn't look at him without my entire body reacting.
I grabbed my clutch. Forced my breathing steady.
This was performance. Nothing more.
I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Descended the stairs carefully in heels that made me feel taller, more composed, more in control than I actually felt.
Wyatt stood at the bottom, checking his phone. Dark suit, perfectly tailored. Hair pushed back. The scars on his face somehow sharper in the low light—brutal and beautiful in equal measure.
He glanced up.
Then stopped.
Completely.
His eyes tracked upward from my shoes—slow, deliberate—over my knees, my waist, lingering at my collarbone before finally, finally reaching my face.
Something shifted in his expression. Something raw and unguarded that he hadn't let slip before. Like he'd forgotten how to breathe. Like I'd knocked every carefully constructed word out of his vocabulary.
My own breath caught. Heat bloomed across my skin—not embarrassment, not nerves. Something else entirely.
Power.
For the first time since stepping into his house, since agreeing to this nightmare arrangement, since letting him touch me and train me and dismantle every defense I'd built—I was the one in control.
He stood frozen a beat too long. Jaw tight. Throat working.
Then he cleared it roughly. "We're going to be late."
But his voice wasn't steady.
Not even close.
And I saw that. Saw the crack in his armor. Saw the way his gaze dropped to my mouth before jerking away. Saw the tension coiling through his shoulders like he was holding himself back from something.
I descended the last two steps. Stopped directly in front of him. Close enough to smell his cologne. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough to watch his pupils dilate.
"Then we should go," I said softly.
His eyes flashed. Dark. Dangerous. Affected.
And when he reached for my coat—when his fingers brushed my shoulders helping me into it—I felt the tremor in his hands.
I sat in the passenger seat, hyperaware of every inch of space between us. Hyperaware of the way the leather seatbelt crossed between my breasts. Hyperaware of how the dress had ridden up slightly when I sat down, exposing more thigh than I'd intended.
Wyatt drove with the same controlled precision he did everything else. Jaw set. Hands confident on the wheel. Eyes forward.
Composed.
Except—
His gaze flickered to my legs.
Just once.
Then to my hands folded in my lap.
Then to the curve of my profile when he thought I wasn't looking.
I was.
He broke the silence first, voice steady and businesslike.
"Here's how today works. The Serpents run a winter charity skate for kids with chronic illnesses. Cameras everywhere. Press everywhere. I'll skate with the kids—sign sticks, take photos."
I nodded, grateful for the shift to logistics. "What do I do?"
"Smile. Be present. Don't wander off with anyone you don't know." He glanced at me briefly. "If I'm not next to you, you'll get questions."
My stomach tightened. "Questions about…?"
"Us. So we need our story straight."
No sugarcoating. No gentle easing into it. Just facts.
"We met at the summer gala. You spilled champagne on me."
I rolled my eyes despite myself. "I did not."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "You would."
Heat crept up my neck. I glowered at him. "Anyway."
"Anyway," he echoed, that almost-smirk still playing at his lips. "I asked for your number. We got coffee once during the off-season. Then again. Then again. It escalated."
The word escalated landed heavier than it should have.
My pulse jumped. "And my father?"
"Didn't know. Wasn't involved. It's private. We wanted to see where it went before telling anyone."
Private.
Intimate.
Real-sounding.
Too real.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. "And your… wife?"
The atmosphere shifted instantly. His grip tightened on the wheel—knuckles going white. A beat of silence stretched between us, taut and dangerous. He didn't look at me.
"Don't bring her up."
I pressed forward anyway, voice smaller than I intended. "I just thought—"
"I said don't."
The warning sliced through the air—sharp, final, leaving no room for negotiation.
I nodded quickly, swallowing the questions burning in my throat. I didn't understand what I'd touched. But I knew with absolute certainty I wouldn't touch it again.
The rest of the drive passed in weighted silence. His jaw remained tight. His breathing controlled but not quite even.
And I sat there wondering what kind of wound I'd just brushed against. What kind of pain lived behind those scars.
What his ex-wife had done to make a man like Wyatt—a man who controlled every room he entered, who commanded without raising his voice, who moved through the world like he owned it—go completely still at just the mention of her.
The arena came into view through the windshield. Lights. Crowds. News vans already parked along the curb.
Wyatt pulled into a reserved spot and cut the engine. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he turned to me. Eyes dark. Unreadable. "When we get out of this car, you're mine."
My breath caught.
"Understood?"
I nodded.
Because what else could I do?
The arena parking lot buzzed with life.
Parents bundled in scarves. Kids clutching hockey sticks too big for their hands. Photographers positioned along the barriers like sentries. Snow drifted down in soft, lazy flakes that caught in the glow of string lights strung between lampposts.
A massive banner stretched across the entrance. "SERPENTS WINTER WISHES SKATE."
Lights twinkled everywhere—wrapped around railings, woven through trees, casting everything in soft gold.
Families lined up for photos. Players already on the ice wore Santa hats, laughing as they helped wobbly children skate circles.
Music played—something upbeat and seasonal that didn't quite match the sharp winter air.
It was… magical. Wholesome. Nothing like the man beside me.
Wyatt turned off the engine. The sudden silence pressed in—intimate, expectant.
His hand rested on the gearshift. Mine stayed folded in my lap.
He turned to me. Eyes darker in the low light. Expression unreadable. "Ready?"
I nodded, breath already misting in the cold air seeping through the car.
He pushed open his door. Rounded the front of the car with that controlled, predatory grace that made people instinctively move out of his way. Then he opened mine.
I stepped out carefully, hyperaware of the cameras already swiveling toward us. Hyperaware of the murmurs rippling through the crowd. Hyperaware of how exposed I suddenly felt under all those watching eyes.
My heel hit ice.
I didn't see it—didn't register the slick patch hidden beneath fresh powder—until my ankle twisted sideways and the ground rushed up to meet me.
I stumbled. Hard. Directly into his chest. Solid. Broad. Warm even through the layers of his coat.
I braced for the instinctive recoil—the flinch, the panic, the sharp intake of breath that always came when someone invaded my space too quickly. The same reaction that used to claw up my throat whenever my ex crowded me against counters or cornered me in doorways.
But there was nothing. No panic. No fear.
My body relaxed. Automatically. Like it knew something my brain refused to acknowledge.
Wyatt caught my waist. Hands firm, anchoring, steadying me without hesitation. His fingers splayed against the fabric of my dress—possessive but not invasive. Grounding. He didn't let go. Not immediately. Not even when I regained my footing.
His thumb brushed once—barely—against my side. A deliberate pressure that sent heat spiraling through my entire body despite the cold.
I looked up. Found his face too close. Found his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that stole whatever breath I'd managed to recover.
"Careful." His voice was low. Meant only for me. "Ice is unpredictable."
But he wasn't talking about the parking lot.
I knew that.
He knew I knew.
My pulse hammered. "I'm fine."
"Are you?"
The question landed heavier than it should have. Like he was asking something else entirely. Like he could feel the way my heart raced beneath his palm. Like he noticed the flush creeping up my neck. Like he saw through every wall I'd tried to rebuild between us.
I stepped back.
He let me—but slowly. His hands slid away with deliberate reluctance, fingertips trailing across fabric until the last possible second.
A camera flashed. Then another. Then a dozen.
I flinched at the sudden barrage of light. Wyatt shifted immediately—subtle, protective—blocking me from the worst of it with his body. His hand found the small of my back. Not for show. Not performance.
Instinct.
"Stay close," he murmured. "They'll swarm if you hesitate."
I nodded mutely. And when he guided me forward through the crowd, his hand never left my back. Not once.
We stopped just shy of the entrance doors. The crowd pressed closer. Cameras angled for better shots. Someone shouted a question I didn't catch over the rush of blood in my ears.