Chapter 1 #3
"Yes." He braces one hand on the wall beside my head, leaning in. His shadow swallows me. "Tell me. What does your fiancé do?"
My brain completely flatlines. Every coherent thought scatters like startled pigeons.
"I don't—I've never—" The words trip over themselves, going nowhere fast. My mouth opens and closes uselessly. I'm doing an excellent impression of a malfunctioning robot. "I mean, that's not really a thing I can just... explain? Like a manual?"
"You have been in relationships." It's not a question. He says it like he's stating an observable fact, like pointing out that the sky is blue or that I have coffee stains on approximately sixty percent of my wardrobe.
"Bad ones," I blurt out, then immediately wish I could stuff the words back in my mouth. "Really, really bad ones. Like, spectacularly bad. The kind where you end up changing your Netflix password and wondering if you need to move to a different state."
"What did they do? The men before." His voice drops, rough and low. "How did they touch you?"
"They didn't, I mean, not like—" I'm stammering. I never stammer. "Why does that matter?"
"Because I must do better." His eyes pin me in place. "If I am to be the one you chose, I must be what they were not."
"You're taking this very seriously," I managed.
"I take everything seriously."
"It's fake."
"It will not look fake."
Something in his tone makes my pulse kick. This was a terrible idea. I knew it the second I woke up, but now, with him standing so close I can smell leather and something sharp, like ozone before a storm, I know it.
"Kruk—"
"I will learn," he says, and it's not a question. "You will teach me. And at the wedding, you will stand beside me, and no one will doubt that you are mine."
"I'm not—"
"For the mission," he corrects, but his gaze doesn't waver. "You are mine for the mission."
I should argue. I should shove him back and tell him this is ridiculous and cancel everything.
Instead, I hear myself whisper, "Okay."
His mouth curves. Not the horrifying smile from before. Something slower. Sharper.
"Good." He straightens, releasing me from the cage of his arm. "We begin now."
"Now?"
"The wedding is in three days. We have much to prepare." He looks around my apartment again, calculating. "First, you will tell me everything about the event. The guests. The layout. The timing."
"It's a wedding, not a heist."
"All events are tactical." He pulls out his notebook. "Who will be there?"
I sigh. List off names. My sister, the bride. Her fiancé, Marcus, who's bland but harmless. My parents. Aunts, uncles, cousins I haven't seen since I was twelve and accidentally set the Thanksgiving table on fire.
"And Derek," Kruk says, his voice flattening on the name.
"And Derek," I repeat, trying to keep my tone casual and failing spectacularly.
"With his new girlfriend."
I freeze mid-gesture. I'd completely forgotten I'd mentioned that detail to him, probably during one of my rambling panic-spirals when he'd first arrived. The fact that he'd filed it away, catalogued it like some threat assessment, makes my stomach do something uncomfortable.
"Yeah," I say weakly.
"What is her name?" He's got his pen poised over the notebook now, like he's about to add her to some tactical database.
"I don't know. Something perky. Probably Madison or Madison or—" I wave my hand vaguely, as if I can conjure the archetype into existence. "—something that sounds like a cheerleader who sells essential oils on the side."
"You are afraid of her," Kruk says. It's not a question. It's a flat statement of fact, delivered with the confidence of someone who's just identified the enemy's position.
"I'm not afraid," I protest, but even I can hear how defensive I sound.
He gives me a look, one of those long, measured stares that makes me feel like he's reading my entire psychological profile in real-time.
"Fine," I mutter. "Maybe I'm a little afraid she's going to be perfect and tiny and good at yoga and I'm going to look like a disaster in comparison."
"You are not a disaster."
"I have coffee on my shirt from yesterday."
"That is... tactical camouflage."
I laugh. It bursts out of me, sharp and too loud, the nervous kind I can't control. Kruk's expression shifts, something almost curious crossing his face.
"You laugh when you are uncomfortable."
"I laugh when things are funny."
"I was not joking."
"I know. That's what makes it funny." I cover my face with my hands. "This is insane. You know that, right? This whole thing is insane."
"Yes," he agrees. "But you signed the contract."
"Stop saying that."
"It is true."
I peek through my fingers. He's watching me with that unnerving focus, like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve.
"Three days," I say.
"Three days," he confirms.
"And then it's over."
"And then," he says slowly, "the mission is complete."
Something about the way he says it sounds like a promise and a threat.
I drop my hands. "Fine. But you're buying the coffee. I need at least four cups before I can deal with teaching you how to pretend to be in love with me."
"Five," he counters.
"What?"
"You will need five. You are very tense."
"I'm tense because there's an Orc in my living room with a battle axe."
"Six," he decides, and heads for the door.
I follow, because apparently my survival instincts died with the third margarita.
This is going to be a disaster.
But at least it won't be boring.