Chapter 9
COLLETTA
We sprint toward the screams, my sandals sliding on the gravel path, Kruk maintaining a controlled pace beside me even though he could easily outrun me. His hand hovers near the small of my back, ready to catch me if I stumble.
Monica stands in the middle of the reception tent, both hands pressed to her mouth, making small keening sounds. Around her, a crowd of wedding guests forms a horrified semicircle, all staring at the same thing.
The cake.
The beautiful, five-tiered, fondant-covered masterpiece that cost more than my car payment sits in ruins on its table.
The top three tiers have slid sideways, creating a leaning tower of buttercream and broken dreams. Frosting flowers litter the tablecloth like casualties of war.
A cascade of edible pearls rolls across the white linen, disappearing over the edge one by one.
"Oh my God," I breathe, skidding to a stop beside my sister. "Monica, what happened?"
"I don't know!" Her voice climbs toward hysteria, her carefully applied makeup starting to run as tears well in her eyes. "They delivered it early! The coordinator said the AC made the frosting too soft and it just... collapsed. The wedding is ruined. Ruined!"
Kruk steps forward, his imposing frame cutting through the crowd like a blade through water. The guests part automatically, some flinching away from his tattoos and gold-capped tusks.
He circles the table slowly, assessing the damage with the same intense focus he uses for everything. His eyes narrow as he studies the angle of the tilt, the structural failures, the pattern of frosting smears.
"The foundation is intact," he announces, his deep voice cutting through Monica's sobs. "The base tier remains stable. The collapse originated at the third tier. Poor weight distribution."
Monica hiccups, staring at him. "What?"
"It can be fixed." He rolls his shoulders back, cracking his neck to one side. "I will need tools. A spatula. Wooden dowels. Additional frosting if available."
I blink at him, my brain struggling to process the image of this massive Orc warrior discussing cake architecture. "You... you know how to fix a wedding cake?"
"I know how to fix structural failures," he corrects, already pushing up his sleeves to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The muscles flex and shift beneath his skin, and I have to force myself to focus.
"The principles are universal. Load-bearing support.
Reinforcement. Strategic redistribution of mass. "
The wedding coordinator, a tiny woman with a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, steps forward nervously. "Sir, I appreciate the offer, but perhaps we should just call the bakery and—"
"I can do it." Kruk's gaze sweeps over her, then returns to the cake. "Bring me the supplies."
Something in his tone makes it clear this is not a suggestion.
The coordinator scurries away. Monica grabs my arm, her nails digging into my skin through my sleeve.
"Is he really a neurosurgeon?" she whispers frantically, mascara tracks streaking her cheeks. "Because right now I need a cake surgeon more than anything in my entire life."
"He's... versatile," I manage, watching Kruk circle the table again, muttering to himself in what sounds like Orcish. "Very versatile."
The coordinator returns with an armful of supplies. Kruk accepts them without comment, laying everything on the table with military precision. Spatulas arranged by size. A package of wooden dowels. Three containers of extra buttercream frosting in varying shades of ivory.
Then he goes to work.
I have never seen anything like it.
His massive hands, hands that could crush bone, move with surgical delicacy.
He uses the spatula like an extension of his arm, smoothing frosting, coaxing the collapsed tiers back into alignment.
He measures distances with his eyes, inserting dowels at calculated intervals, reinforcing the structure from within.
The crowd watches in stunned silence.
Sweat beads on his forehead despite the air conditioning. A smear of buttercream marks his cheek. His jaw is set in concentration, that same intensity he brought to the three-legged race now focused entirely on salvaging my sister's wedding cake.
He works for forty minutes straight, never pausing, never hesitating. His movements are methodical, patient. When a frosting flower breaks, he repairs it with three careful touches of the spatula. When a tier threatens to slide again, he catches it, holds it steady, waits for the frosting to set.
This terrifying Orc warrior, this man I hired three margaritas deep to intimidate my ex-boyfriend, is saving my sister's wedding with the same dedication he brought to protecting me from a waiter with a pepper grinder.
Monica edges closer to me, her earlier panic fading into fascination. "Colletta," she whispers, her voice awed. "Where did you find him?"
"It's a long story," I murmur, unable to look away from Kruk's hands as they smooth a final layer of frosting over a repaired seam.
"He's incredible."
"Yeah." The word comes out softer than I intended, carrying more weight than a simple agreement. "He really is."
Kruk steps back, surveying his work with a critical eye. The cake stands tall again, all five tiers perfectly aligned, the frosting smooth and pristine. If you didn't know it had collapsed an hour ago, you would never guess.
He wipes his hands on a damp towel, leaving streaks of ivory buttercream on the white fabric. Then he turns to Monica.
"The structural integrity has been restored," he reports, his tone formal, professional. "I recommend reducing the ambient temperature by two degrees to prevent further softening. The cake will hold until the reception."
Monica stares at him for three full seconds. Then she bursts into tears again, but this time she's smiling, and she throws her arms around his waist in a hug that doesn't even reach his chest.
"Thank you," she sobs into his sternum. "Thank you, thank you, oh my God, you saved my wedding."
Kruk goes rigid, his arms held awkwardly at his sides, his eyes finding mine over Monica's head in a silent plea for extraction protocols.
I bite back a laugh and step forward, gently prying my sister off him. "Okay, okay, let the man breathe. You have a rehearsal dinner to get ready for, remember?"
Monica pulls back, wiping her eyes, her smile watery but genuine. "Right. Yes. Oh God, I need to fix my makeup." She squeezes Kruk's arm, or tries to, her hand not making it even halfway around his bicep. "You're amazing. Both of you. I'm so glad you're here."
She hurries away, the coordinator trailing after her with the clipboard. The crowd begins to disperse, conversations buzzing with excitement over the cake resurrection they just witnessed.
I look up at Kruk, this massive, tattooed warrior with buttercream on his cheek and satisfaction in his eyes.
"That was..." I trail off, searching for words adequate to describe what I just saw. "You were incredible."
He grunts, wiping the frosting from his face with the back of his hand. "The structure was sound. It only required reinforcement and patience."
"Still." I reach up without thinking, catching a smear of ivory he missed near his jaw. My thumb brushes across his skin, rough with stubble, warm beneath my touch. "Thank you. For doing that. You didn't have to."
His eyes lock on mine, dark and intent, and the air between us shifts the way it did in the gazebo before Monica's scream interrupted us.
"The mission parameters include maintaining the deception," he says quietly, but there's something underneath the words, something that makes my pulse kick up. "Your sister's distress threatened operational effectiveness."
"Right. The mission." My hand is still on his face. I should move it. I don't move it. "Kruk, can we... Can we talk? Somewhere private?"
His jaw flexes beneath my palm, tension rippling through him. "Yes."
We walk through the vineyard as the sun begins its descent toward the hills, painting the sky in shades of peach and deep, burning gold. The air has cooled slightly, carrying the scent of grapes and earth and the faint sweetness of wildflowers growing between the rows.
Kruk walks beside me, silent, his presence a solid anchor in the gathering dusk. Our shoulders brush with each step, his hand occasionally steadying me when I stumble on the uneven ground.
I need to tell him. The truth. All of it.
That I didn't hire a neurosurgeon. That I was drunk and heartbroken and Derek's smug face on the wedding invitation made me want to prove I had moved on, that I was fine, that I didn't need him.
I found Kruk's security services listing at two in the morning and thought hiring a terrifying bodyguard to pretend to be my boyfriend was the best idea I'd ever had.
That somewhere between the tuxedo t-shirt and the tactical social analysis and the way he fixed my sister's cake with the same intensity most people reserve for defusing bombs, this stopped being fake.
"Kruk." I stop walking, turning to face him. The sunset gilds his features, catches on the gold caps of his tusks, makes his dark eyes look almost soft. "I need to tell you something."
He goes still, that predator stillness that makes the air feel heavier. "You are terminating the contract."
"What? No." I shake my head quickly, surprised by how much the idea hurts. "No, that's not... I just need to be honest with you about why I hired you."
His brow furrows slightly, confusion flickering across his face. "You required protection services for a social engagement. The parameters were clear."
"That's the thing. I didn't really need protection." The confession tumbles out, clumsy and rushed, my hands twisting together in front of me. "I needed... I needed Derek to see that I had moved on. That I was fine. Better than fine. That I was with someone incredible and successful and—"
"Intimidating," Kruk finishes, his voice flat.
"Yes." I wince at how terrible it sounds out loud.
"I'm sorry. I know I should have been clearer in the contract about what this actually was.
A fake relationship. A performance. But then you showed up with the tuxedo t-shirt and the battle axe and you were so serious about the mission, and I didn't know how to tell you that—"
"That I am a prop." Each word lands like a stone dropping into still water, heavy and final. "A weapon aimed at your former mate to prove your worth."
My stomach twists, nausea rising hot and acidic in my throat. "No. God, no, that's not... that's not what I meant."
"It is what you hired me for." He takes a step back, creating distance between us. "To perform the role of devoted partner. To intimidate. To prove a point."
"That's what I hired you for," I agree desperately, moving toward him, closing the gap he just created.
"But that's not what this is anymore. That's what I'm trying to tell you.
Watching you today, the way you handled Monica's meltdown, the way you fixed that cake like it was the most important mission you'd ever been assigned. .."
I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, steady and strong.
"I'm falling in love with you," I whisper, the words cracking on the way out. "And I don't know what to do about it because you're supposed to be fake and you're the realest thing I've felt in years."
His hand covers mine, holding it against his heart. For three seconds he doesn't speak, doesn't move, just stares down at me with those dark, intense eyes.
Then a voice cuts through the moment like a blade slicing through silk, shattering the fragile intimacy we've built in this secluded corner of the vineyard.
"I knew it! I fucking knew it!"
We both turn, Kruk's body instantly shifting into a defensive stance, positioning himself slightly in front of me even as my hand is still pressed against his chest. His entire demeanor changes in a heartbeat, from vulnerable and open to the tactical, mission-focused warrior I first met.
Every muscle in his body goes taut, coiled and ready for a threat.
Derek stands three rows over, his phone held up, recording, a triumphant sneer twisting his features. He waves a printed piece of paper in his other hand.
"I knew something was off about you two," he shouts, starting toward us through the vines.
My blood turns to ice.