Chapter 1 #2
"The contract specifies preparation begins seventy-two hours before the event." He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and I have to shuffle backward or get trampled. "We must begin tactical assessment."
"Tactical, what?"
He closes the door behind him. Scans my apartment with the intensity of someone sweeping for explosives. His gaze lands on the pile of laundry I've been meaning to fold for a week, the stack of true crime books on the coffee table, the half-eaten pizza box balanced on the arm of the couch.
"Your perimeter is compromised," he says.
"My perimeter is fine."
"There are three points of entry. The door"—he gestures with the axe—"the window, and the fire escape window you have blocked with dead plants."
"Those aren't dead. They're dormant."
He gives me a look that says he's not arguing about my killing of succulents. He moves to the window, inspects the lock, frowns.
"This lock would not stop a child," he says, his voice carrying someone delivering a tactical briefing.
"Well, good thing children aren't actively trying to break into my apartment," I say, aiming for levity, for some normal human interaction that doesn't involve threat assessment of my living space.
"Not yet," he replies, without a trace of irony, still examining the window lock with the intense scrutiny usually reserved for defusing bombs.
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, for some indication that he's joking, that this is an elaborate bit he's committed to for reasons I don't understand.
He stares back, his expression carved from stone, absolutely dead serious, as if child-based home invasions are a genuine and imminent concern that I've been foolishly ignoring.
This is my life now. This is what happens when you make decisions three margaritas deep and then are too stubborn to unmake them.
"Kruk," I start, trying to sound reasonable, trying to sound like a person who has no control over this situation. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."
"You signed the contract."
"I was drunk."
"You were under duress. Emotional threat from"—he pulls a small notebook from his pocket, flips it open—"Derek Whitmore. Former romantic partner. Designation: The Target."
"He's not—wait, The Target? Derek's not the target. He's just my ex. He's going to be at the wedding and I wanted—"
"To intimidate him." Kruk nods. "Tactical humiliation. I am familiar with this strategy."
"It's not a strategy. It's just—I had too much tequila and I thought it would be funny to—"
"Funny."
The word lands flat. He watches me with the focus of a predator that's just noticed movement in the brush.
"You do not find this mission humorous now."
"No. I mean, yes. I mean—" I drag my hands through my hair, which is a mistake because my fingers get stuck in a knot. "Look, I can't bring you to my sister's wedding."
"Why not."
"Because you're—" I gesture vaguely at all of him. "You're seven feet tall and carrying a battle axe."
"Six foot eight. And the axe is traditional."
"It's a vineyard wedding. There's going to be string lights and a harpist and centerpieces shaped like tiny wine bottles. You'll—people will—"
"Be intimidated," he finishes. "As required."
"Not intimidated. Terrified. My mom will have a heart attack. My sister will kill me. And Derek—" I stop. Take a breath. "Derek will think I've lost my mind."
Kruk considers this.
"Good," he says.
"Good?"
"He will believe you are unpredictable. Dangerous. He will not approach." He taps his notebook. "Threat neutralized."
"He's not a threat. He's just a guy who dumped me because I once called him at two a.m. to ask if he thought crows could hold grudges."
Silence.
Kruk's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture. He leans in, just slightly, and I become very aware of how much space he takes up. How the air in the room seems thicker with him in it.
"He said you were too much," Kruk says, voice low.
I blink. "How do you—"
"You told me. Last night. You said he made you feel like you were a problem that needed fixing." His jaw tightens. "He is the problem."
Something hot and uncomfortable twists in my chest.
"That's—it's not that simple."
"It is." He straightens. "You hired me to protect you. I will do this. At the wedding, you will not be alone. You will not be small. You will have a warrior at your side, and he"—the way he says he drips contempt—"will see what he lost."
I should argue. I should tell him this is insane. I should find a way to cancel the contract and send him home and show up to the wedding alone like a functional adult.
Instead, I find myself asking, my voice smaller than I intended, "You really think this will work? Like, actually work?"
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even blink. "I have never failed a mission."
"Kruk." I gesture vaguely at the space between us, at the absurdity of everything. "This isn't a mission. It's a wedding. There's going to be chicken or fish options and a cash bar and someone's aunt doing the Electric Slide."
His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking and absolute, the stare that makes you feel like you're the only thing in the room that matters. Its intensity steals the air from my lungs.
"It is both," he says simply, as if that settles everything.
The certainty in his voice does something to me. Something I don't want to examine. It feels like standing too close to a fire, the kind that could burn you or keep you warm depending on how stupid you're willing to be.
I'm very stupid, apparently. Monumentally, catastrophically stupid. The stupid that gets its own Wikipedia page.
"Fine," I say, and the word comes out shaky, like my vocal cords are having second thoughts even if my brain isn't. "But we need rules. Actual rules. Non-negotiable ones."
"Rules." He pulls out his notebook again. When did he even get a notebook? Did he bring tactical planning supplies to my apartment? And flips to a blank page with the precision that suggests he's done this a thousand times before. His pen hovers over the paper, poised like a weapon. "Tell me."
I take a deep breath. Hold it. Let it out slowly. "No axe at the wedding."
He frowns, and it's the first time I've seen genuine confusion cross his face. The pen lowers slightly. "What if there is a threat?"
"There won't be." I say it as firmly as I can manage, which isn't very firm at all considering my entire life is currently spiraling.
"You cannot guarantee this." His tone is matter-of-fact, like he's explaining basic tactical philosophy to a particularly slow recruit. "Unknown variables. Unsecured perimeter. Multiple exits. You have not assessed the venue for potential—"
"Kruk. There will be no threats at my ex-boyfriend's wedding except maybe the bride's stepmother after she gets into the rosé."
He stares at me. Blinks once, slowly. Then writes something down in his notebook that I'm ninety percent sure says "brIDE'S STEPMOTHER - POTENTIAL HOSTILE" in all caps.
"No axe," I repeat. "And no—no calling Derek The Target in front of people. His name is Derek."
"Derek Whitmore. Former romantic partner. Emotional threat level: moderate."
"Not moderate. Low." I correct him with more confidence than I feel. "He's just a guy. A perfectly ordinary, boring guy who happens to be marrying someone else. That's it."
Kruk's pen pauses mid-notation. His eyes, dark, intense, unnervingly focused, lock onto mine with the scrutiny usually reserved for interrogations. "He made you cry into alcohol at three in the morning. Alone. Until you made poor decisions."
My face goes hot. "That's—" I stop myself before I dig the hole any deeper.
Take a breath. Regroup. Try to salvage whatever dignity I have left, which admittedly isn't much at this point.
"Okay, fine. New rule. Rule three. When we're at the wedding, you have to smile. At people. Like a normal person would."
Kruk's expression does something complicated, something between confusion and physical pain, like I've just asked him to perform amateur surgery on himself.
His brow furrows, creating deep lines across his forehead.
"Smile," he repeats slowly, as if I've just spoken in an alien language he's trying to decode.
"Yes. Smile. You know—" I gesture vaguely at my own face, forcing my mouth into an approximation of something pleasant. "Like this. When people talk to you."
"At the wedding. When people talk to you. You can't just stand there looking like you're planning a siege."
"I am always planning."
"Then plan quietly. And smile."
He tries. The result is horrifying. His lips pull back, exposing both the gold-capped tusks and several other very sharp teeth. It looks like a threat display.
"Not like that," I say quickly. "Like—softer. Friendlier."
"I am not friendly."
"Pretend."
He stares at me, incredulous. "You hired me for intimidation. Now you want me to be soft."
"I want you to not give my grandmother a stroke." I rub my temples. The hangover is staging a comeback. "Look, can you just, when we're at the wedding, can you try to look like a normal person who's not about to murder everyone?"
"I am Orc," he says, flat. "I will never look normal to your people."
The way he says your people stings.
"That's not what I meant."
"Yes. It was." He closes the notebook, tucks it away. "But you are correct. If I am to be your fiancé, I must study the role. I must learn what is expected." His gaze sharpens. "You will teach me."
"Teach you what, exactly?"
His eyes don't leave mine.
"How to be yours."
The words hit me sideways, completely derailing whatever I was about to say. Heat crawls up my neck in a slow, mortifying wave. My face is definitely doing that blotchy thing it does when I'm flustered. I can feel it.
"I—that's not—" I swallow hard, trying to relocate my brain cells. "We're fake engaged. You don't need to—"
"If the performance is not believable, the mission fails." He steps closer. I step back. My spine hits the wall. "We will practice."
"Practice."