Wyatt
I spotted Thomas Harrington the moment we cleared the entrance tunnel.
He stood near the ice-level seating, mid-conversation with someone from the Serpents' PR team.
Tailored coat. Polished shoes. The same controlled, calculating expression he'd worn in every interaction we'd had since this arrangement began.
Perfect.
I'd been hoping for this.
My grip on Chastity's hand tightened slightly as I steered us directly toward him. She didn't notice—too distracted by the decorations, the crowd, the lingering aftermath of what I'd just done to her mouth in the parking lot.
Good. Let her stay distracted. This conversation wasn't for her.
Thomas paused mid-sentence when he caught sight of us. His eyes tracked our approach with the precision of a man assessing threats. First to our joined hands. Then to the way Chastity had unconsciously tucked herself into my side—seeking warmth, seeking stability, seeking me.
His jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Barely perceptible to anyone who didn't know what to look for.
But I saw it.
I saw everything.
The mask he wore in public was slipping. Just a hair. Just enough to reveal the fury simmering underneath that carefully constructed facade of paternal pride.
We stopped directly in front of him.
Chastity lit up instantly. "Dad!"
Her voice carried genuine warmth. Affection. The kind of uncomplicated love that made my chest twist with something I refused to examine too closely.
Thomas's expression smoothed over immediately—years of practice snapping that mask back into place. He smiled at his daughter with what looked like genuine tenderness.
"Chastity. You look beautiful, sweetheart."
I stepped closer behind her. Deliberately towering. Letting my presence crowd the space between them. Letting him feel the shift in dynamics—the way his daughter now stood on my side of the battlefield.
"She does, doesn't she?" My voice came out smooth. Easy. Laced with exactly the kind of possessive pride that would make any father uncomfortable.
Thomas stiffened.
I smiled—slow, cutting, designed to slice through whatever composure he had left. "You should've seen her get ready." I let the pause stretch just long enough to be deliberate. "Took forever to zip that dress."
Thomas went pale.
The implication hit exactly as intended—domestic intimacy, private moments, access to his daughter in ways that made him want to rip my throat out but couldn't because we were surrounded by cameras and families and children.
Chastity sputtered beside me. Her elbow jabbed into my ribs—horrified, mortified, completely unaware of the actual war being waged over her head.
I kept my eyes locked on her father. Let my grin sharpen into something pure provocation.
Thomas's voice dropped low—a warning wrapped in forced civility. "This isn't appropriate."
I leaned in slightly. Close enough that only he could hear. Close enough that the cameras would just catch what looked like friendly conversation between two men discussing the woman they both cared about.
"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.
I didn't look at her. Kept my eyes locked on the two idiots across the arena. Stared them down with the kind of cold, unblinking intensity that had earned me my nickname. The look that promised consequences. The look that said touch what's mine and find out what happens.
They looked away immediately.
Good.
Smart.
My arm stayed exactly where it was—possessive, territorial, completely unnecessary for the cameras but absolutely necessary for the hot spike of something primal that had just punched through my carefully maintained control.
Chastity blinked up at me, confused. "What was that?"
"They were staring."
She followed my gaze, saw the two players now very deliberately looking anywhere else. "People stare, Wyatt. It's fine."
I shook my head once. Sharp. Final. "Not at you."
Her frown deepened. "Why not me?"
My jaw hardened. The answer came out before I could stop it, before I could filter it through the careful strategy that had guided every interaction up until this moment.
"Because you're with me."
She stared at me with those wide eyes that saw too much, processed too quickly, understood things I hadn't meant to reveal.
And only after I said it—only after those four words escaped and landed and couldn't be taken back—did I realize with absolute, terrifying clarity that I'd meant every syllable.
Not because of the arrangement. Not because of the cameras.
Not because of her father or the revenge or the carefully constructed lie we were selling to the world.
But because somewhere between the garden and the practice sessions and the kiss in the parking lot, she'd stopped being leverage.
And I had absolutely no idea what the hell to do about it.
The event coordinator waved me over with that aggressively cheerful smile people wore when they wanted something from you. "Wyatt! We're ready for you on the ice."
I nodded once. Didn't move.
My eyes stayed locked on Chastity, who stood exactly where I'd left her—tucked against the boards, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to be invisible.
Crowd everywhere. Press lurking at every angle. Men still staring despite my earlier warning. And Thomas fucking Harrington hovering somewhere in the VIP section, probably watching this entire interaction through binoculars and planning my murder.
I should've walked away. Should've done my job, skated with the kids, signed the sticks, played the role I'd been hired to play.
Instead, I hesitated.
For the first time in years, the ice felt secondary to something else. Someone else.
I stepped closer to her instead of away. Lowered my voice so only she could hear over the ambient noise of families and music and chaos.
"Stay where I can see you."
Not a request. A command.
Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. She put her hands on her hips—that stubborn tilt to her chin I was starting to recognize as trouble.
"You have to skate, Wyatt."
"That's not what I asked."
She swallowed. Something flickered across her face—fear? Uncertainty? Or maybe the shadow of whatever her ex had done that made her flinch at sudden movements, made her tense when voices got too loud.
Her voice softened. Lost that defensive edge. "I'll be fine. Go."
I didn't like it. Didn't like leaving her exposed. Didn't like the way vulnerability looked on her when she was trying so hard to be brave.
But the coordinator was waving again, more insistent this time. Kids were lining up at the gate. Cameras were positioned and ready.
I forced myself to step back. Forced my feet to carry me toward the ice.