Chapter 3 #2
"The neurosurgeon," Derek says, and there's a question embedded in those three words even though he's phrased it as a statement.
Oh god. Of course Monica told him. Monica tells everyone everything, it's practically her defining characteristic, and I'd specifically mentioned the neurosurgeon detail because it sounded impressive and professional and exactly the man I would totally be engaged to if my life wasn't actually a continuous string of catastrophically poor decisions.
"That's right," I confirm, forcing brightness into my voice like I'm trying to sell him a timeshare in Florida. My smile feels like it might crack my face in half.
Derek's gaze travels up Kruk's body, taking in the tattoos crawling up his neck and onto his face, the gold-capped tusks, the shaved head with its single thick braid. His eyes linger on the tuxedo t-shirt with visible confusion.
"You're a neurosurgeon."
"Affirmative." Kruk's voice is a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the floor. "I specialize in removing heads."
The silence that follows is not just quiet, it's the oppressive, suffocating absence of sound that usually precedes either an explosion or a funeral. Maybe both. The air itself seems to have frozen, crystallized into something sharp and uncomfortable that catches in my throat.
Complete, absolute, devastating silence.
Every muscle in my body locks up. My nervous system has apparently decided that the best response to this particular crisis is total shutdown. I can't breathe. I can't think. I can definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent cannot look at Derek's face right now.
Madison's hand flies to her mouth, her eyes going wide, the wide that suggests she's witnessed something truly horrifying, like a car accident or a public proposal gone catastrophically wrong.
Her fingers press against her lips as if she's physically trying to prevent words from escaping, or maybe she's just trying to keep her jaw from hitting the floor.
Derek goes pale.
Not just regular pale, either. He goes the specific shade of white that people turn when they're confronting information their brain cannot possibly process through normal channels.
The color drains from his face like someone pulled a plug, leaving him looking vaguely greenish under the hotel's flattering lighting.
His expression cycles through confusion, concern, and what might be dawning horror in the space of about three seconds.
"He means tumors," I say quickly, desperately. "Brain tumors. That's a, um, medical term. Very technical. Removing the... head... of the tumor. From the brain. Which is where they grow. Tumors. Sometimes."
I am making this so much worse.
Kruk glances down at me, and I see the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Not confusion. Calculation. He's adapting to the situation, I understand. Adjusting his approach based on new intelligence.
"I work with small blades," he adds, which does not help at all.
"Scalpels," I translate, my voice climbing. "He means scalpels. Which are small. And blade-like. For surgery."
Derek looks like he's trying to decide whether to laugh or call security.
Madison tugs on his arm. "We should, um, we should go check in. It was really nice meeting you both!"
They retreat.
Fast.
I watch them go, Derek glancing back over his shoulder twice like he's trying to memorize Kruk's face for a police report he's planning to file later.
The moment they're out of earshot, I drop my forehead against Kruk's arm, which is still exactly where it was, unmoved by my existential crisis.
"Removing heads," I mutter into his bicep, which is warm and solid and smells faintly of something woodsy that I refuse to acknowledge because we're currently in crisis mode. "That's what you led with. Removing heads. At a wedding."
"It was technically accurate," Kruk says, his voice rumbling through the muscle I'm pressed against. There's no defensiveness in his tone, just that same matter-of-fact delivery he uses for everything from ordering coffee to describing what I'm now realizing might be actual decapitations. "I have removed many heads."
Oh god.
"Please stop talking," I hissed, my words muffled against his arm. My face is burning so hot I'm pretty sure I'm leaving a mark on his shirt. "Please, for the love of everything holy, stop talking about head removal in public places where people are celebrating love and commitment."
There's a pause.
A beat of silence where I can feel him processing my request, running it through whatever tactical analysis system operates in that terrifying brain of his.
"Acknowledged," he says finally.
I raise my head and find Brie staring at us with wide eyes and a very fixed smile.
"So," she says carefully. "The Lover's Loft?"
I look up at Kruk.
He looks down at me.
His expression is completely unreadable, all hard angles and ink and those dark, steady eyes that seem to see right through my skin and into the chaotic mess underneath.
"We will take it," he says.
"Great!" Brie's relief is palpable. She starts typing again, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I'll just need a credit card and ID from both of you, and then I can get you checked in and—"
A sound cuts through her words.
Low.
Subsonic.
It starts somewhere deep in Kruk's chest and rolls outward like distant thunder, a vibration I feel more than hear. The desk trembles. The little bell sitting next to the guest book rattles against the wood.
Brie stops typing.
I freeze.
Kruk's gaze has locked onto something behind me, his entire body gone still in that way predators do right before they strike.
I turn.
Derek is standing by the coffee station, pouring himself a cup, but his eyes are on me. On us. That same smug expression on his face, like he's watching a car crash and enjoying every second of it.
The growl intensifies.
It's not loud. It doesn't have to be. It bypasses the ears entirely and goes straight to some primal part of the brain that remembers when humans were prey animals and large predators with sharp teeth were a fact of daily life.
Derek's hand jerks. Coffee sloshes over the rim of his cup and onto the pristine white tablecloth.
Madison appears at his elbow, says something I can't hear, and physically pulls him toward the hallway.
He goes.
The growl stops.
Kruk's focus shifts back to Brie, who looks like she's reconsidering every life choice that led her to this moment.
"Apologies," he says calmly. "The threat has been neutralized."
"Right." Her voice is faint. "That's... good."
I should say something. Explain. Smooth this over.
Instead, I giggle.
High-pitched and unhinged, the sound of someone whose brain has fully abandoned ship and left only hysteria behind.
Kruk glances down at me.
Brie's smile becomes even tighter.
"So," she says brightly, pushing two key cards across the desk.
"Room 304. Top floor. You'll take the main elevator to the third level, turn left, and it's the last door on the right.
Checkout is at eleven, breakfast is served from six to ten in the main dining room, and if you need anything at all, just dial zero from your room phone. "
I reach out and take the key cards from the polished surface of the desk, my fingers trembling so badly that I nearly drop them before I can get a proper grip. The plastic feels smooth and cool against my clammy palms.
"Thank you," I managed to force out, my voice coming out strangled and several octaves higher than normal. "We really appreciate it. So much. The hospitality has been just... incredible. Really top-notch."
I'm babbling now. I can hear myself doing it and I still can't stop.
Brie's smile has taken on the quality of someone who's being held hostage and is trying to signal for help with her eyes. "Enjoy your stay," she says, the words crisp and professional despite everything that just happened.
Kruk places his hand on the small of my back, a gesture that's somehow both protective and proprietary, and guides me away from the desk.
We walk toward the elevator bank, our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet runner that stretches down the hallway.
Kruk moves with that same steady, ground-eating stride, his presence clearing a path through the other guests like a ship cutting through water. People step aside without even realizing they're doing it, some instinct warning them not to get too close.
I trail behind him, still clutching his arm because letting go feels dangerous somehow, like I'll float away or shatter into a thousand pieces if I'm not anchored to something solid.
The elevator doors slide open. We are alone inside once the doors slide shut.
I look at the key cards in my hand. One says "Lover's Loft" in raised gold lettering. There's a little embossed heart next to the room number.
"A heart-shaped bed," I tell no one in particular.
"Affirmative."
"This is fine. This is totally fine. We're both adults. We can share a heart-shaped bed platonically. People do it all the time."
"Do they?"
"Probably not." I laugh again, that same unhinged sound.
"God. This is such a disaster. I'm so sorry.
I should've just told Derek the truth, that I'm single and pathetic and still not over him even though he's clearly moved on with someone who probably has her life together and doesn't giggle at inappropriate times and—"
"You are not pathetic."
I blink up at him.
His expression hasn't changed. Still that same calm, immovable intensity.
"You hired protection," he continued. "This is strategic thinking. You identified a threat and took action to neutralize it."
"The threat is my ex-boyfriend being smug at me."
"Psychological warfare is still warfare."
The elevator chimes. Third floor. The doors slide open.
Kruk steps out first, scanning the hallway like he expects snipers to be hiding behind the potted ferns. When he's satisfied, he gestures for me to follow.
Room 304 is at the end of a long hallway decorated with more reclaimed barn wood and tasteful landscape paintings. There's a small placard next to the door with two interlocking hearts and the words "Where Love Blooms" in that same swirly script.
I want to die asI slide the key card through the lock. The door swings open. And there it is. The heart-shaped bed.
It's massive. King-sized, at minimum, covered in white silk sheets and approximately six thousand pillows.
There are rose petals scattered across the comforter.
A bottle of champagne sits in an ice bucket on the nightstand.
The headboard is tufted velvet. The whole thing looks like it was designed by someone who learned about romance exclusively from Valentine's Day commercials.
"Fuck," I whisper.
Kruk steps past me into the room, his tactical assessment clearly taking priority over the interior design choices.
He checks the bathroom. The closet. The balcony.
"Perimeter is secure," he announces.
"Great. That's great. Very secure. With our one giant heart-shaped bed that we're definitely going to share platonically like normal professional people who definitely didn't meet because I hired you while drunk."
Kruk turns to look at me.
I'm still standing in the doorway, gripping the door frame like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
His gaze drops to where my fingers are wrapped around the wood, then back to my face.
"You are distressed."
"I'm fine."
"Your heart rate has increased. Your breathing is shallow. These are signs of acute anxiety."
"I'm fine."
He crosses the room in three strides and stops directly in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
This close, I can see the individual lines of ink that make up his tattoos, the way they curve around the muscle and bone beneath. Can smell him, something clean and faintly metallic, like steel and cold air.
"The mission parameters have not changed," he says quietly. "I am here to ensure your safety and project an image of strength to deter your former partner. Sleeping arrangements do not alter this objective."
"Right. Okay. That's very logical." My voice comes out higher than intended, almost squeaky. I clear my throat and try again. "Very reasonable. Professional. Mission-focused."
"I will take the floor," he states, as though the matter is already settled. He's already scanning the room, probably calculating the optimal defensive position between the door and the bed.
"You can't sleep on the floor for three days.
" Words fall before I can stop them. "That's insane.
You're like, what, six-five? Six-six? The floor is hard.
And probably not even clean. Do you know how rarely hotel staff actually vacuum properly?
I read this article once about hotel carpets and the bacterial count—"
"I have slept in worse conditions."
Of course he has. He probably slept in a ditch during some tactical operation while monitoring a perimeter or whatever orcs do. My complaining about carpet cleanliness probably sounds ridiculous to him.
"Kruk." I don't know what I'm trying to say. His name just comes out, half plea, half frustration.
"Affirmative." He's still looking at me with that steady, unreadable expression, waiting for further orders like I'm his commanding officer instead of the disaster human who hired him while drunk.
I take a breath, feeling it catch somewhere. Another breath, deeper this time, trying to find something resembling composure in the wreckage of my nervous system.
"We can share the bed. Like adults. It's fine. It's huge. We probably won't even notice each other."
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. Something I can't quite name.
"If you are certain."
"I'm certain."
Liar, my pulse whispers against my throat. Liar, liar, liar.