Wyatt
I stepped off the ice, skates heavy against the rubber matting. My chest felt tight. Wrong. Like something had crawled inside and made a home there without permission.
Barbara's voice still echoed in my skull. Sharp. Cutting. Accurate.
This relationship is a joke.
She wasn't wrong.
Except Chastity had stood there and made it real. Defended me like I was worth defending. Touched me like it was natural—fixing my collar, straightening my tie, brushing my shoulders with hands that didn't flinch away from my scars.
Kissing my cheek.
Kissing my goddamn cheek.
Like she had every right to.
Like I was hers.
I shouldn't have let it happen. Shouldn't have stood there frozen while she claimed me in front of the woman who'd destroyed my life. Shouldn't have felt that ugly, unwanted warmth spreading through my chest when she'd said there was nothing she had to pretend with me.
But I did.
And now I couldn't shake it.
I'd watched her from the ice while skating with the kids. Caught glimpses of her standing at the barrier, face soft with something I didn't want to name. She'd laughed when a toddler spun in dizzy circles around me. Actually laughed—bright and unguarded and devastating.
That sound had done something to me.
Something dangerous.
I grabbed my bag from the bench, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. I needed to take her home. Put distance between us. Cool the hell off before I did something irreversible.
Before I forgot why she was here in the first place.
"Yo, Garrison!"
I turned.
Two teammates appeared—Rowan and Logan, still in their gear, faces flushed from the ice.
Rowan clapped me on the back hard enough to rattle my ribs.
"We're hitting The Pour House. Come blow off steam."
Logan grinned. "Bring your girl!"
My jaw ticked.
Your girl.
The words hit like a physical blow. Twisted something deep in my chest—possessive, territorial, completely unwanted.
She wasn't mine. Couldn't be. This was temporary. Strategic. A means to an end. Except every time someone called her mine, my body reacted like it was truth instead of fiction.
I should decline. Should take Chastity home and put walls back up before this got messier than it already was.
But then I caught sight of her across the lobby.
Standing near the concession stand, talking to a family.
She was smiling—that genuine, unguarded smile that made her look younger.
Softer. Like someone who hadn't learned to be careful yet.
Barbara's accusations hung in the air between us still. Cold. Clinical. True.
You ruin them.
Maybe I did.
Maybe I would.
But watching Chastity laugh at something a kid said, watching her be kind and open and real in a way I'd stopped believing people could be—I wanted more time. Just a little longer before this arrangement ended, and she went back to her perfect life and forgot I existed.
The thought made something dark and ugly curl through my gut.
"Yeah." The word left my mouth before my brain caught up. "We'll come."
Rowan grinned. "Hell yeah. Been too long since you came out with us."
Logan punched my shoulder. "Your girl gonna be cool with a dive bar?"
That phrase again.
Your girl.
I didn't correct them. Didn't say she was borrowed. Temporary. Part of a revenge plot they knew nothing about. Just nodded once and watched them head off, already arguing about who was driving.
I stood there for a beat too long, bag heavy in my hand, heart doing something complicated against my ribs.
This was a mistake. Taking her to The Pour House meant more time together.
More proximity. More chances for lines to blur and boundaries to crumble.
More opportunities for me to forget she wasn't actually mine.
But I crossed the lobby anyway. Found her still smiling, still soft, still dangerously real.
When she turned and saw me, something shifted in her expression. Recognition. Awareness. Heat she tried to hide but couldn't quite manage.
"We're going out," I said. Flat. Controlled. Giving her no room to argue.
Her eyebrows lifted. "Out?"
"The Pour House. Teammates invited us."
She blinked. "A bar?"
"You don't have to come."
The words tasted like lies. Because I wanted her to come. Wanted her beside me in that dark, crowded space where lines blurred easier and pretending felt less like work. Wanted to keep her close just a little longer.
She studied my face, searching for something I refused to show her. Then nodded. "Okay."
One word.
It shouldn't have felt like victory.
But it did.
The Pour House hit us with noise and heat the second we stepped inside. Bass thumped through the floorboards. Neon beer signs bathed everything in red and blue. Bodies packed the space—laughing, shouting, spilling drinks.
Chastity stopped just inside the door, clutching her coat like a lifeline.
I leaned down, mouth close to her ear, so she'd hear me over the chaos. "Stay close."
She nodded without hesitation. Moved into my side like it was reflex now. Natural. Her shoulder brushed my ribs and stayed there.
I hated how right it felt.
Rowan waved us over to a corner booth. Logan was already ordering—loud, gesturing wildly at the bartender. I guided Chastity through the crowd with a hand at her lower back, feeling the tension in her spine ease the closer we got to the table.
She slid into the booth. I sat beside her. Not across. Beside.
Logan returned with a tray of drinks and slid something pink and ridiculous in front of Chastity. Sugar crystals sparkled on the rim.
She picked it up, curious, and took a careful sip.
Her cheeks flushed almost immediately. Soft pink spreading from her neck to her face like wildfire.
I stared. "You're kidding."
She blinked at me, eyes already slightly unfocused. "What?"
"You're a lightweight."
Her mouth formed this small, defiant pout. Actually pouted at me like I'd insulted her honor. "I'm fun."
Something dangerous twisted in my chest. Heat and possession and amusement I had no business feeling. "You're trouble."
She lifted the glass again, took another longer sip, deliberately holding my gaze. Challenging me.
I should stop her. Should slide that drink away and order her water. Should remember she was here because I'd forced her into this arrangement, not because she wanted to be pressed against my side in a dive bar getting tipsy off sugar and vodka.
I didn't move. Just watched her take another sip. Watched the flush deepen. Watched her shoulders relax, and her smile come easier. Watched her become someone who didn't have to perform or prove or protect herself. And told myself I'd only let her have one more.
Just one.
The lie tasted bitter even before I swallowed it. The music thumped harder. Bass vibrated through the sticky floor and up into my bones. Lights flashed—red, blue, strobing white that made the crowd blur into motion and shadow.
I was reaching for my beer when her hand wrapped around my wrist.
I looked down.
Chastity stared up at me with eyes too bright, cheeks flushed pink from that ridiculous sugared drink, smile wide and absolutely devastating.
"Wyatt." She tugged on my wrist. "Dance with me."
I lifted a brow. "No."
"Please."
That single word—breathy, hopeful, genuine—short-circuited something in my brain. Flipped a switch I didn't know existed. Made every logical reason to refuse dissolve into nothing.
Before I could process what was happening, she dragged me through the crowd.
Bodies pressed close. Heat and noise swallowed us whole. She pulled me into the center of the chaos and turned, already moving to the beat.
She wasn't a good dancer.
God, she was adorable.
She swayed her hips awkwardly, hair bouncing with each movement, completely off-rhythm but entirely committed. Her smile stretched wide and bright like this was the best night of her life. Like standing in a packed dive bar with strangers and terrible music was somehow magical.
I stood stiff. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching her.
She stepped closer. Close enough I caught her scent beneath the beer and sweat—something clean and soft that didn't belong here. Didn't belong with me.
Her hands slid up my chest. Slow. Deliberate. Palms flat against my shirt like she had every right to touch me.
My breath stopped.
"Come on." She tilted her head, smile turning playful. "Don't be so serious."
Something inside me cracked. Melted. Gave way to heat I couldn't control anymore.
I uncrossed my arms. Put one hand on her waist.
Her breath caught. Audible even over the music. Eyes widening just slightly as my fingers spread against the curve of her hip, anchoring her in place.
She didn't pull away. Didn't tense. Just kept swaying, kept smiling, kept looking at me like I wasn't broken and scarred and using her for revenge.
I leaned down—close enough to almost kiss her, close enough to feel her breath against my mouth—and murmured low, voice rough with something I refused to name.
"You're trouble, Chastity Harrington."
She laughed. Bright and reckless and completely unguarded. The sound hit me square in the chest, burrowed deep, took root somewhere I couldn't reach to tear it out.
Her hands slid higher. Wrapped around my neck. Pulled me closer until our bodies aligned, until I could feel every curve pressed against me, until there was no space left between us to hide in.
"Maybe." Her voice was soft. Teasing. Deadly. "But you like it."
She wasn't wrong.
That was the problem.
I tightened my grip on her waist. Drew her impossibly closer. Let myself move with her—just slightly, just enough to make this look real for anyone watching. Told myself it was still performance. Still strategy. Still part of the plan.
But her fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of my neck and every lie I'd been telling myself shattered.
This wasn't performance anymore. Hadn't been for a while. And when she smiled up at me—flushed and happy and so goddamn beautiful it hurt—I knew I was in serious trouble.
The kind that ended badly. The kind I couldn't stop even if I wanted to.