Chapter 2 #2
I do not pause. The momentum of the cover story must be maintained.
"You were grateful for the intervention.
You recognized my expertise. You asked me to train you.
" I glance at her briefly, then return my attention to the road.
A sedan two cars ahead is drifting slightly into our lane.
I adjust our position. "I agreed to provide instruction. "
"I don't need—" she starts, and I can hear the indignation building in her voice, that particular tone that means she is about to argue a point of pride regardless of tactical reality.
"We began spending time together. I found your conversation... tolerable."
She goes quiet. When I glance over, she is looking at me with an expression I cannot read. Something soft around the eyes. Something dangerous around the mouth.
"Tolerable," she repeats slowly, the word hanging in the air between us like a question she hasn't fully formed yet.
"Affirmative." I maintain my focus on the road, tracking the vehicles ahead, noting the upcoming exit we will not be taking.
"Wow." She draws out the syllable, and I can hear the smile creeping into her voice despite her attempt to sound unimpressed. "Romance isn't dead after all. Here I was worried chivalry had breathed its last breath, but no—I've been deemed tolerable. My heart is positively aflutter."
"This is not romance," I clarify, because it is important she understands the parameters of our arrangement. "This is a tactical partnership. Mission-focused cooperation."
"For three days," she adds, and there is something in her tone I cannot quite identify. Something that might be disappointment, though that makes no tactical sense.
"Correct." I signal for the next lane change, checking my mirrors with precision. "Seventy-two hours. Then the operation concludes."
She turns to look out the window. The landscape rolls past, green and gold, vineyards stretching in neat rows toward the hills. I do not like open terrain. Too many sight lines. Too few cover positions.
"How long have we been together?" she asks.
"Six months."
"Why six months?"
"Long enough to be serious. Short enough to explain why your family has not met me."
"That's... actually smart," she admits, and I can hear the reluctant approval in her voice, as though acknowledging my tactical competence costs her something.
"I am always smart," I state, because it is a fact that requires no embellishment or false humility.
There's a pause, just long enough for me to complete another mirror check and verify our speed relative to the vehicle in front of us. Then she speaks again.
"And modest too, apparently."
I consider this. "Modesty is a weakness," I inform her, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead, monitoring the merge pattern of traffic as we approach a bottleneck.
"It serves no tactical purpose. When one possesses superior skills or knowledge, acknowledging them allows for more accurate mission planning and resource allocation.
False humility introduces unnecessary variables and compromises operational effectiveness. "
She laughs again, but this time it sounds different. Less nervous. More genuine.
I find I do not mind the sound.
"Okay," she says. "Six months. We met at a gym. You corrected my form, which I'm still annoyed about, by the way, but whatever. We started training together. Things developed. And now we're engaged because...?"
"I claimed you," I state simply, because it is the truth and there is no reason to complicate it with unnecessary explanation.
Silence fills the car's interior.
I can feel the weight of her stare boring into the side of my head with an intensity that would be uncomfortable if I were not accustomed to maintaining focus under far more hostile scrutiny.
My peripheral vision catches the slight shift of her body as she turns more fully in her seat to face me, her seatbelt pulling taut with the movement.
"You..." She pauses, and I hear her swallow. "You claimed me."
"Correct," I confirm, executing a smooth lane change to avoid a slower-moving sedan that has become a tactical impediment to our forward progress. "I made my intentions clear. You accepted."
I can hear her breathing, slightly elevated. Processing. Silence extends exactly four seconds before she responds.
"Just like that," she says, and her voice carries a quality I cannot immediately categorize, somewhere between disbelief and something else.
Something that makes the air in the vehicle feel different, charged in a way that has nothing to do with the climate control system I adjusted to optimal temperature seventeen minutes ago.
"Orcs do not waste time with elaborate courtship rituals. When we find a suitable mate, we claim them."
"Mate."
"Partner," I correct. "For the purposes of this mission."
"Right. The mission."
Her voice has become strange. Tight. I cannot tell if she is angry or afraid or something else entirely.
"Is this unacceptable?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the road while simultaneously monitoring her reaction through my peripheral vision.
The question is tactical. If she has objections to the claim, I need to address them now, before we enter the hostile environment of the wedding venue where deviation from established protocols could compromise the entire operation.
"No, it's just—" She stops abruptly, and I hear the rustle of fabric as she shifts in her seat again. The seatbelt makes a small clicking sound against the buckle. When she starts again, her voice has changed pitch slightly, and gone higher. "That's very... direct."
I consider this assessment. "Directness is efficient," I state, because this is an objective fact.
Indirect communication leads to confusion, misunderstandings, and tactical errors.
Among my clan, a warrior who cannot clearly state his intentions is considered unreliable in both combat and courtship.
The two require the same foundational skill: clarity of purpose.
"Sure. Efficient." There is a pause, during which I execute another lane change with textbook precision. Her laugh comes out strange, almost breathless. "That's exactly the word I was thinking."
I do not understand her tone, but I do not have time to analyze it. The GPS announces our exit. I signal, merge, follow the winding road through wine country. The venue appears ahead, a sprawling estate with white buildings and manicured gardens.
I immediately hate it.
Too open. Too exposed. Too many civilians milling about with champagne glasses and pastel ties.
I pull into the parking area. A young human male in a vest approaches, holding a clipboard.
The valet.
I assess him: five-foot-nine, one hundred and forty pounds, soft hands, no visible weapons. Threat level: minimal. Annoyance level: high.
"Good afternoon!" he says, voice bright and grating. "Welcome to Vineyard Valley! Are you here for the wedding?"
Colletta leans across me to answer, and I catch her scent: coffee and something floral and underneath it all, the sharp tang of nervousness.
"Yes," she says, her voice taking on that artificially bright tone she uses when trying to overcompensate for my presence. "We're with the bride's family. Colletta Fears, I'm on the list."
"Wonderful!" The valet's smile widens as he gestures toward the vehicle with his clipboard, apparently oblivious to the fact that I have not unlocked the doors or made any move to exit. "If you'll just pop the trunk for me, I'll grab your bags and get you folks parked in our premium section—"
"No."
The single word cuts through his rehearsed speech like a blade through silk. The valet blinks at me, his smile faltering into something confused and slightly concerned. "I'm... I'm sorry, sir?"
"You will not touch the vehicle." I meet his gaze directly, ensuring he understands this is not a negotiation. "Under any circumstances."
"Sir, it's just standard valet service—we do this for all the guests, and I promise we're very careful with—"
"I will park it myself." I shift the car into drive, my foot hovering over the accelerator. The conversation is over. He simply has not realized it yet.
Colletta puts a hand on my arm. Her fingers are warm through the fabric of my shirt. "Kruk. It's fine. He's just doing his job."
"His job is unnecessary," I state, keeping my eyes on the valet, who still hasn't processed that this discussion has concluded.
"It's valet parking, Kruk. It's normal." Colletta's voice has taken on that pleading quality she uses when she knows I'm right but wishes I would pretend otherwise for the sake of social convention.
"I do not trust him with the vehicle."
"Why not?" She sounds genuinely baffled, as if the reasoning isn't abundantly clear.
"He has weak hands." I glance at the valet's grip on his clipboard—loose, casual, the hold of someone who has never had to maintain control of anything more dangerous than a pen.
"Insufficient strength. Poor situational awareness.
He did not check the perimeter before approaching. He made himself vulnerable."
The valet's professional smile is starting to fracture at the edges, uncertainty creeping into his expression. "I assure you, sir, I'm fully trained in operating all types of vehicles, and we have full insurance coverage for any—"
"No." The word is final. Absolute. There will be no further discussion on this matter.
I pull forward, ignoring his protests, and find a spot at the far end of the lot. Good sight lines. Clear exit route. Close to the tree line in case we need to disappear quickly.
Colletta is staring at me again.
"What," I say.
"You just... you can't just do that." Her voice wavers between exasperation and resignation, a tone I've come to recognize as uniquely hers when confronting the gulf between what she considers socially acceptable behavior and what I consider tactically sound decision-making.