Chapter 2
OLOG
The hostile approaches from my nine o'clock.
I clock him the moment he changes trajectory, veering away from the elaborate floral arrangement near the concierge desk and angling directly toward Bliss.
Medium build, expensive watch, hair aggressively gelled into submission, and a smile that registers on my internal threat assessment scale as "requires immediate neutralization. "
This is the ex-boyfriend. Has to be.
The way his gaze travels over Bliss as possessive, entitled, faintly condescending, confirms it. The way her spine stiffens beneath my palm, her entire body tensing like she's bracing for impact, seals the identification.
Target acquired.
I run the tactical analysis in under two seconds.
He's moving with the loose-limbed confidence of a man who believes he still holds territory here, who thinks Bliss is still within his sphere of influence.
His approach vector suggests he's planning to insert himself into this conversation, probably with some casually dismissive comment designed to undermine her in front of her family.
Unacceptable.
I adjust my stance, shifting my weight slightly forward and letting my hand spread wider across the small of Bliss's back. The movement is subtle, but the message is clear to anyone fluent in body language and primal territorial displays.
She is occupied. She is claimed. Approach at your own risk.
The ex doesn't read the warning signs. Most humans don't, when it comes to Orcs. They see the size, the tattoos, the tusks, and their brains malfunction somewhere between "fascinating" and "terrifying," and they lose the ability to process more nuanced threat indicators.
His mistake.
"Bliss! There you are. I was starting to think you weren't going to make it."
His voice is aggressively casual, pitched to sound friendly and familiar, but there's an edge underneath it.
A presumption of intimacy. An assumption that he still has the right to greet her like this, like they're old friends catching up instead of a woman and the man she's actively trying to prove she's over.
Bliss's body goes rigid beneath my hand.
I move before she has to respond.
Three steps put me directly in the ex's path, my body angled in a way that physically blocks his approach to Bliss.
I extend my hand with the smooth professionalism of a corporate executive, forcing him to either shake it or commit an obvious social snub in front of the steadily growing audience of wedding guests filtering through the lobby.
"Olog Glore. Bliss's partner. You must be part of the wedding party."
I deliver the introduction with flawless courtesy, but I make sure my grip is firm enough to remind him that I have approximately eighty pounds of muscle on him and the bone density to back it up.
His hand feels small. Soft. The kind of hand that's never done real work.
"Uh. Brandon. Yeah. I'm... I'm the bride's step brother."
Brandon. Filing that away for future reference.
He extracts his hand from mine with visible relief, flexing his fingers like he's checking to make sure they still function. His gaze flicks between me and Bliss, confusion and something that looks uncomfortably like wounded pride warring on his face.
"I didn't know Bliss was seeing anyone."
The statement hangs in the air, half question, half accusation.
Bliss shifts beside me, her breath catching, and I feel the tiny tremor that runs through her. She's nervous. Stressed. This man has done damage here, left marks that haven't fully healed, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to remove the threat.
I keep my voice calm. Professional. Devastatingly polite.
"We prefer to keep our private life private. But yes, Bliss and I have been together for several months now."
The lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. I've done this before, countless times, for countless clients. The fake relationship, the fabricated meet-cute, the carefully constructed backstory designed to deflect nosy family members and jealous exes.
This is what I do.
Brandon's eyebrows climb toward his aggressively gelled hairline.
"Several months? That's... wow. Fast."
There's skepticism in his voice, a subtle implication that Bliss couldn't possibly have moved on that quickly, that she must still be hung up on him.
Wrong again.
"When you know, you know," I say, and let my hand slide from the small of Bliss's back to her hip, pulling her closer against my side.
She fits perfectly there, her head barely reaching my chest, the top of her dark hair level with my collarbone. The size difference is extreme, visually striking, and I can see Brandon's brain struggling to process it.
Good. Let him struggle.
"How did you two meet?"
The question comes from Aunt Susan, who's still hovering nearby like a particularly judgmental surveillance drone.
I glance down at Bliss, catching her eye, and I can see the faint panic there, the wild internal scramble as she tries to remember which fabricated story we're supposed to be using.
I've got this.
"Cliff diving incident," I say smoothly, committing fully to the absurdity.
Bliss makes a small, choked noise that could generously be interpreted as agreement.
"Bliss's raft overturned in a class-four rapid.
I was working safety and recovery for the expedition company.
I pulled her out of the water, performed a very brief medical assessment, and she looked up at me, soaking wet and furious, and said—" I pause, letting the anticipation build, "—'If you tell anyone I screamed, I'm giving you a one-star review. '"
Aunt Susan blinks.
Brandon's mouth opens slightly.
Bliss, to her absolute credit, doesn't laugh. Her shoulders shake slightly, but she holds it together.
"I knew immediately she was remarkable," I continue, my tone grave and sincere. "Most people panic in that situation. Bliss threatened my rating. I was impressed."
"You almost drowned and your first thought was Yelp?"
Brandon sounds genuinely baffled.
Bliss lowers her head back to look up at me, and there's something bright and wild in her eyes now, the panic replaced by barely suppressed laughter.
"I take customer service very seriously," she says, her voice only slightly strangled.
I nod solemnly.
"She does. It's one of the many qualities I admire about her."
Brandon shifts his weight, visibly uncomfortable now, and I can see the exact moment he realizes he's losing this encounter.
"Well. That's... that's great. I'm happy for you, Bliss. Really."
The words are hollow, performative, and I catalog the insincerity for future reference.
"We should get checked in," I say, steering the conversation toward a natural exit point. "The rehearsal dinner is in a few hours, and I need to review the seating arrangements."
"Review the seating arrangements?" Brandon repeats, his confusion deepening.
"Tactical positioning," I explain, completely deadpan. "I like to know my sight lines in advance. Ensures optimal protective coverage."
Bliss makes another strangled noise.
Brandon stares at me like I've just sprouted a second head.
Mission accomplished.
I guide Bliss away from the cluster of relatives, my hand still resting possessively on her hip, and I feel the moment the tension drains out of her. Her entire body sags slightly against me, and she exhales a breath that sounds like she's been holding it for the last five minutes.
"Oh wow," she whispers, her voice pitched low enough that only I can hear it. "Tactical positioning? Sight lines?"
"Authenticity is important," I murmur back. "I wanted him to believe I take your safety seriously."
"He thinks you're insane."
"Good. Insane is memorable. Memorable supports the narrative that you've moved on to someone far more interesting."
She laughs, a real laugh this time, bright and a little breathless, and the sound does something strange to me.
Focus, Olog. Professional boundaries.
We reach the reception desk, and the clerk behind it, young, blonde, aggressively cheerful—looks up with a smile that falters slightly when she registers my full height.
"Good afternoon! Welcome to Seaside Grandeur Resort and Spa. Checking in?"
"Bliss Vance," Bliss says, stepping slightly forward. "I should have a reservation for the weekend."
The clerk's fingers fly over her keyboard, her smile bright and practiced.
"Vance, Vance... yes! Here we are. Let me just pull up your confirmation."
She clicks through several screens, her expression shifting from cheerful to focused to faintly concerned.
My internal alarm system pings.
"Is there a problem?" I ask, keeping my tone polite but letting just enough weight into the question to convey that I am paying attention.
The clerk's smile wobbles.
"Well... it looks like there was a small issue with the booking system. We’re close to capacity this weekend because of the wedding, and it seems your original room assignment was... accidentally double-booked."
Bliss goes still beside me.
"Double-booked," she repeats, her voice flat.
"But don't worry!" The clerk's smile ratchets up several notches, compensating for the bad news with sheer enthusiastic energy. "We do have one suite available. It's actually an upgrade! Beautiful ocean view, king bed, gorgeous marble bathroom—"
"One king bed?" Bliss interrupts.
The clerk nods, still smiling.
"Yes! Just the one. But it's a very large bed. California king. Plenty of space."
I feel Bliss's pulse spike where my hand still rests against her hip.
This is a problem.
The booking was supposed to include two beds, or at minimum a suite with a pull-out couch.
Separate sleeping arrangements. Professional boundaries maintained.
The contract I signed with the app was very clear about appropriate conduct, and sharing a bed with a client falls firmly into the category of "situations requiring extensive documentation and explicit consent. "
I need to fix this.
"Is there any possibility of a rollaway bed?" I ask. "Or access to an additional room?"
The clerk's smile turns apologetic.
"I'm so sorry. We're completely sold out. Every room, every rollaway, every possible sleeping surface has been claimed by the wedding party and their guests. This is truly the last available option."
Bliss takes a very careful breath.
I run a rapid threat assessment on the situation.
Options: Sleep in the car. Highly unprofessional and defeats the purpose of the booking.
Sleep in the lobby. Same problem. Insist on finding alternative accommodations off-site.
Breaks the continuity of the cover story and raises questions about why her devoted boyfriend wouldn't just share a bed with her.
One solution remains.
I look down at Bliss, waiting for her call.
Her face is flushed, her eyes slightly wide, and I can see her brain working through the same tactical analysis I just ran.
"We'll take it," she says, her voice determinedly bright.
The clerk beams.
"Wonderful! Let me just get you checked in."