Chapter 4
KRUK
The bed's structural integrity is acceptable.
I test the frame's load-bearing capacity with a series of controlled presses along the perimeter.
The joints hold. No creaking. The mattress is softer than optimal for defensive maneuvering, but adequate for rest. The heart shape creates blind spots at the upper curves where an enemy could approach undetected, but given the single point of entry and my position between the door and Colletta's probable sleeping location, the risk is manageable.
"Are you... testing the bed's weight limit?"
Colletta stands near the window, arms crossed, watching me with that expression I'm learning to recognize. Eyes slightly wider than baseline. Lips pressed together like she's trying not to laugh or scream. I haven't determined which yet.
"Affirmative. Maximum load capacity appears to be four hundred pounds, possibly more. Sufficient for our operational needs."
"Our operational needs," she repeats slowly. "Right. Because we might need to... what, fortify our position on the heart-shaped bed during the wedding reception?"
I straighten, considering the scenario. "Unlikely, but preparedness prevents casualties."
She makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a whimper and turns to her suitcase.
The explosion happens immediately.
Clothes erupt from the luggage like she packed them under pressure. Dresses, undergarments, shoes, some small bag that spills cosmetics across the carpet. A hair dryer cord whips out and nearly takes out the champagne bottle. Everything is wrinkled, mismatched, chaotic.
Like her.
I retrieve my pack from where I set it by the door, kneel, and begin unpacking with proper protocol.
Folded loincloths, stacked by color: black, dark gray, darker gray.
My spare boots. Blade maintenance kit. The tactical folder Colletta made me leave in the car, which I retrieved anyway because only a fool enters unknown territory completely unarmed.
"Oh my god," Colletta breathes from behind me. "Did you fold your loincloths into perfect squares?"
"Proper equipment maintenance ensures operational readiness."
"They're loincloths."
"All gear deserves respect." I place the final stack in the dresser drawer, each pile aligned precisely with the edges. When I turn, she's staring at me with that look again, the one that makes something shift uncomfortable. Unfamiliar.
"You're..." She leaves, shaking her head. "Never mind. I need to change the cocktail thing. So, um. No looking."
I nod once. "Understood."
She points at the window. "Face that way."
I move to the window as ordered, positioning myself with my back to the room. Outside, the vineyard stretches in neat rows toward the hills. Good sightlines. Multiple approach vectors. The main building is two hundred meters northeast. I count the visible exits.
Behind me, fabric rustles.
I should focus on the tactical assessment. Map the grounds. Identify chokepoints and potential threats. This is what I was contracted to do: protect her, project strength, ensure mission success.
But the window is reflective.
Not clearly. Not like a mirror. Just enough that I can see her shadow-shape moving in the glass, blurred and indistinct but unmistakably there. She pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it toward her suitcase. It lands on the floor three feet away. She doesn't seem to notice or care.
Her skin is pale in the dim reflection. Soft. So different from mine.
She reaches behind her back to unfasten her undergarment, arching slightly with the motion, and something hot coils low in my gut. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome. I'm supposed to be professional. Mission-focused.
But I can't look away from the ghost of her in the glass.
She's chaos incarnate. Spilled clothes and scattered thoughts and that laugh that erupts at the worst possible moments. When I growled at her former partner, she giggled. Giggled. Like my threat display was amusing instead of terrifying.
Everything about her contradicts my training.
And I cannot stop watching her reflection as she steps into a different dress, tugging it up over her hips, struggling with the zipper.
"Fuck. Fuck. Why do I buy dresses I can't zip myself? What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. I never think."
She's talking to herself now, wrestling with the fabric like it's an opponent who won't submit. I can hear the frustration building in her voice, that edge of barely-contained chaos that seems to follow her everywhere she goes.
"Kruk?" Her voice shifts, uncertain. Quieter. There's a vulnerability in it that wasn't there a moment ago. "Can you... can you help with the zipper?"
The question hangs in the air between us.
I turn before processing the full implications of the request. Before my tactical mind can analyze the scenario, assess the risks, calculate the appropriate response. My body moves on instinct, responding to the uncertainty in her voice like it's a threat I need to neutralize.
But this isn't a threat.
This is something else entirely.
She's standing in the middle of the room in a dark blue dress that clings to her body like it was designed specifically to destroy my focus. The back is open, a zipper hanging at her waist, exposing a long stretch of bare skin from her shoulders to the small of her back.
My hands clench at my sides.
"Please?" she adds, and there's something in her voice I don't have words for. Not quite vulnerable. Not quite trusting. Something between.
I cross the room slowly, giving her time to change her mind. She doesn't. She just turns her back to me and pulls her hair over one shoulder, exposing her neck.
The zipper is small. My fingers are not.
I take the tab carefully between my thumb and forefinger, hyperaware of how easy it would be to tear the delicate metal track. How close my knuckles are to her skin. How she smells like something sweet and unfamiliar, something that makes me want to lean closer and identify the source.
Strawberries, maybe. And something else. Something uniquely her.
I pull the zipper upward slowly, watching the fabric close over her back, hiding her from me inch by inch. Her breathing has changed. Faster. Shallower. The same signs of anxiety I noted earlier, but different somehow. Warmer.
"There," I say when the zipper reaches the top. My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She doesn't move immediately.
Neither do I.
We stand there, me behind her, close enough that I could wrap my hand around her throat. Close enough that she's inside my reach, my space, my protective radius.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I step back before I do something catastrophically unprofessional. "We should prepare for the social engagement."
"Right. Yes. Cocktails. With my family. And Derek." She turns, and her face has gone blotchy. Red patches on her cheeks and neck. "This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm not panicking."
She is absolutely panicking. Every indicator confirms it—elevated pulse visible at her throat, the slight tremor in her fingers as she presses them against her flushed cheeks, the way her eyes have gone too wide and too bright.
"Did you bring the garment?" she asks abruptly, her words coming out in a rush, tumbling over each other like she's afraid if she doesn't speak quickly enough she'll lose her nerve entirely.
I blink, running through my mental inventory of equipment. Garment could refer to multiple items. Context is required. "Clarify."
"The suit. I texted you. I sent you to that place on Fourth Street, and they were supposed to have something ready for you. For the wedding events. Please tell me you picked it up."
I retrieve the garment bag from my pack. She snatches it immediately, unzipping it with frantic energy.
The suit is black. Extremely fitted. I examined it during pickup and determined the measurements were likely incorrect.
"Perfect," Colletta breathes, running her hand over the fabric. "Put it on."
"The dimensions appear insufficient."
"It's supposed to be tight. It's a tailored fit. You'll look..." She trails off, face going redder. "Professional. Put it on."
I strip efficiently, removing my tuxedo shirt and reaching for the suit's dress shirt.
"Oh my god." Her voice is strange. High. "You're just... you're changing right here. Right now. In front of me."
"You observed my equipment earlier. Efficient use of time." I button the shirt. It strains across my chest and shoulders immediately, the fabric pulling tight enough that the stitching is visible between buttons.
The pants are worse.
I have to use tactical breathing to get them fastened. The waistband cuts into my abdomen. The thighs are so constricting I can barely achieve full range of motion. When I move to test mobility, I hear a stitching pop somewhere near my left hip.
"How do I appear?"
Colletta has gone completely still. She's staring at me with her mouth slightly open, color flooding her cheeks, her throat, disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress.
"You look..." She swallows hard, her throat working visibly. Her eyes track from my chest down to where the pants cling to my thighs, then snap back up to my face. She tries again, her voice coming out breathier than before. "Fine. You look fine."
I shift my weight experimentally, feeling the fabric strain dangerously across my quadriceps. "The garment is restricting blood flow to my lower extremities. Continued wear may result in compromised mobility and potential circulatory issues."
"That's..." She laughs, high and nervous, the sound catching in her throat. "That's how suits work. They're supposed to be fitted. Tailored. You look exactly how you're supposed to look."
I test a combat stance, or attempt to. The pants prevent me from achieving proper weight distribution. "This is a flawed design. Human males willingly compromise their operational effectiveness for aesthetic purposes?"