Chapter 12 #2
He doesn't need to know the precise calculations, however. Fear is more effective than reality.
I extend my arm further, holding him out over the balcony. The distance between his head and the decorative rocks below increases by another foot, maybe two. His entire body becomes rigid, then starts trembling. The wind catches his expensive blazer, making it flap around his torso.
"You were saying?" I ask, perfectly polite, conversational even, as though we are discussing nothing more significant than the weather or perhaps the quality of the vineyard's latest vintage.
He makes a noise somewhere between a scream and a whimper. "Okay, okay! Jesus Christ, pull me back!"
"Will you interfere with the wedding?" I ask, my voice steady and measured. My grip on his ankle remains firm, unwavering. Below us, the decorative rocks seem very, very far away to him, I imagine.
"No! No, I won't say anything, I swear! I swear to god!" His words tumble out in a panicked rush, his arms windmilling uselessly as he tries to orient himself in the disorienting upside-down position.
I let the silence stretch for a moment, watching him dangle. "Will you approach Colletta?" I continue, as though we are simply having a normal conversation and he is not currently suspended over a two-story drop.
"No! I'll stay away, I promise! I promise!" His voice cracks on the last word, desperation bleeding through every syllable. "Just pull me up, please, oh god, please—"
I consider his terror with the same analytical detachment I would apply to assessing an opponent's weaknesses in combat, cataloging each detail with methodical precision.
The way his face is gradually turning an alarming shade of crimson from the blood rushing downward to his head, pooling in his cheeks and forehead.
The genuine, primal fear blazing in his eyes, not the performative anxiety of someone trying to talk their way out of an uncomfortable situation, but the real thing, the visceral terror that strips away all pretense and social veneer.
The tremor that has seized his entire body, starting in his core and radiating outward to his fingertips.
Satisfactory.
The assessment is complete. The message has been thoroughly delivered and, more importantly, received.
I pull him back onto solid ground and set him down carefully. He collapses against the railing, gasping, and I notice with clinical detachment that he may have wet himself slightly.
"If you break these terms," I say, crouching so we are eye level, "I will return. And next time, I will not be polite."
He nods frantically, jerking his head up and down so hard I think he might give himself whiplash.
His mouth opens and closes repeatedly like a fish gasping on dry land, working desperately as if trying to form words.
No sound emerges except small, pathetic wheezing noises.
His eyes are wide, still glazed with residual terror, the whites visible all around the irises.
I straighten to my full height, towering over his crumpled form still pressed against the railing.
"Good talk," I say, my tone conversational, almost pleasant, as though we've just concluded a perfectly civil business negotiation over coffee rather than a threat delivered while dangling him off a balcony like a piece of meat.
I turn and leave him there, a trembling, speechless mess against the ironwork, and make my way back toward the stairwell with measured steps. Behind me, I can hear him struggling to catch his breath, small gasping sobs mixing with the evening breeze.
The matter is resolved. The threat has been neutralized without permanent physical damage.
Colletta should be pleased I showed such restraint.
By the time I return to the room, Colletta is gone, already swept up in the chaos of wedding preparations. I find a note on the heart-shaped bed, scrawled in her messy handwriting: Don't kill anyone. I mean it. Also, your tux is hanging in the closet. Be good. —C
I smile despite myself and retrieve the garment in question.
The tuxedo is black, perfectly tailored to my frame in a way the previous suit was not. Colletta must have arranged this, must have noticed the screaming seams and found time between all the other chaos to fix it. The realization settles warmly.
I dress with care, fastening each button, adjusting the bow tie with the same precision I would use cleaning a blade. When I check my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.
I look, the small human part of my brain supplies with something almost like wonder, like I actually belong here, not lurking in the shadows as hired security, not standing watch at the perimeter like some untamed beast permitted entry only under strict supervision, but genuinely, legitimately belonging in this world of pressed linens and champagne toasts and people who know which fork to use when.
Like a mate worthy of the woman waiting for me somewhere in this sprawling venue, probably arguing with florists and holding her sister's hand through pre-wedding panic.
The ceremony area is a cleared section of lawn overlooking the vineyard, rows of white chairs arranged in a half-circle around an archway draped in flowers.
I take my assigned seat near the back, scanning the crowd automatically.
Elderly relatives. Friends in pastel dresses.
A photographer darts like an anxious bird.
No Derek. Interesting.
The music begins, some string arrangement that makes the humans around me sigh and dab at their eyes. The groom appears at the altar, nervous but beaming. The bridesmaids begin their procession, a parade of matching pink dresses.
Then Colletta appears at the aisle, framed by the archway of flowers and the golden afternoon light filtering through the leaves overhead.
Every tactical assessment, every threat scan, every systematic analysis of the venue's security weaknesses, all of it evaporates in an instant.
My breath catches, actually catches, like I've taken a blow to the solar plexus during hand-to-hand training. The sensation is foreign, unsettling, powerful enough that my hand unconsciously moves to my chest as if to verify my lungs still function.
She is wearing a dress the color of sunrise, something between pink and gold that makes her skin glow.
Her curls have been somewhat tamed, pinned back with small flowers, though several rebellious pieces have already escaped.
She carries a bouquet of white roses, and when her eyes scan the crowd and find me, her entire face lights up.
I cannot tear my gaze away from her, cannot force my attention to remain on tactical considerations or perimeter security.
Every instinct I've honed over years of combat operations, every discipline I've cultivated to maintain focus in hostile environments, fails completely in the face of Colletta standing beneath an archway of roses and late afternoon light.
She walks down the aisle with the other bridesmaids, and I track every step, cataloguing the way the dress clings to curves I mapped with my hands last night, the way she is trying very hard not to smile too wide because this is her sister's day, not hers.
But when she passes my row, moving in that careful, measured pace that bridesmaids are instructed to maintain, her eyes find mine in the sea of guests. The connection is immediate, electric, cutting through the formal atmosphere like a blade.
The corner of my mouth lifts, just slightly. Then, maintaining eye contact with an intensity that would make most people uncomfortable, I wink. Deliberate. Unmistakable. A breach of every wedding protocol I'm certain exists.
Her composure shatters. She ducks her head, fighting a grin, and I hear a small, inappropriate giggle escape her before she wrestles it back under control. The elderly woman next to me makes a tutting sound.
I watch Colletta take her place at the front, watch her sister walk down the aisle in a confection of white lace, watch the ceremony unfold with vows and tears and the exchange of rings.
But my attention keeps returning to the woman in the sunrise dress, who glances at me when she thinks no one is looking, whose smile is small and secret and meant only for me.
My mate.
The word settles with the finality of a war drum, resonating through every part of me until it becomes an undeniable truth.
Not just a woman I'm escorting to a wedding.
Not just the unpredictable, coffee-stained, giggling human who hired me in a margarita-fueled moment of panic.
Mine. In every way that matters to an orc whose instincts run deeper than logic or reason.
And for the first time since I accepted this bizarre mission, this assignment that started as a straightforward contract and spiraled into something I had no operational framework to understand, I grasp what I am actually protecting.
What I have been protecting all along, even when I didn't have the words to articulate it.
Not her dignity, though I would defend that fiercely against anyone who dared to wound it.
Not her pride, though watching her square her shoulders against her family's judgment made something savage and approving rise in my throat.
This. Us. The fragile, impossible thing we built in the wreckage of a fake engagement.
The ceremony concludes with applause and cheers. The newly married couple walks back down the aisle, beaming, and the wedding party follows. Colletta catches my eye again as she passes, and this time she mouths two words.
Thank you.
The words form on her lips without sound, but I read them clearly in the curve of her mouth, in the softening of her eyes, in that particular way her whole face transforms when she drops the armor she usually wears against the world.
Not the brittle, caffeinated chaos she presents to strangers.
Not the nervous giggle-and-deflect routine she deploys when emotions threaten to overwhelm her social parameters. Just Colletta. Raw. Real. Mine.
I nod once in response, slow and deliberate, a gesture that carries everything I cannot yet articulate in this public setting, in this ceremony space where civilians conduct their elaborate bonding rituals without understanding the fundamental truth of what claiming actually means.
It's a promise and a claim wrapped into a single movement.
An acknowledgment and a declaration. I see you. I have you. I'm keeping you.
Something fundamental shifts in my tactical assessment of this entire operation.
The mission parameters have evolved beyond their original scope.
What began as a straightforward contract, providing security escort and romantic cover for one wedding event, duration approximately six hours, minimal threat level anticipated, has transformed into something my standard operational framework was never designed to accommodate.
This is no longer about successfully navigating a wedding reception without casualties or social catastrophes.
This is no longer about maintaining the illusion of engagement until we can extract from the venue and return to our separate lives.
This is no longer about completing a bizarre Craigslist assignment that I accepted because the tactical challenge interested me and because something about her rambling, three-margaritas-deep message made me curious in ways I didn't fully understand.
This is about keeping her.
Permanently.
Claiming her completely, in every way that my instincts demand and my increasingly possessive nature requires. Making her understand that what started as performance has become the most authentic thing in my carefully controlled existence.
And I always, always complete my missions.