Chapter 13
COLLETTA
Ibarely register the vows.
Monica's voice breaks on for better or worse, and our mother dabs at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief, and the string quartet swells into something achingly romantic that probably cost more than my car payment.
The officiant says something about love being a journey, about two souls becoming one, about commitment and honor and forever.
But I can't stop looking at him.
Kruk sits in the back row, shoulders too broad for the delicate vineyard chair, hands folded in his lap like he's waiting for a signal to deploy.
The late afternoon light cuts through the ceremony tent and catches on the gold caps of his tusks, on the harsh angles of his face, on the tribal ink that crawls up his neck and disappears into his collar.
He's supposed to blend into the background, to be forgettable decoration for this pastel tableau.
He fails spectacularly.
Three elderly aunts keep glancing back at him with expressions that cycle between terror and fascination.
A cousin's boyfriend shifts uncomfortably every time Kruk's gaze sweeps the perimeter.
Even the flower girl gave him a wide berth during her walk down the aisle, scattering petals in an arc that carefully avoided his general vicinity.
But when he looks at me, when those dark eyes find mine across the rows of chairs and champagne-tipsy guests and elaborate floral arrangements, everything else dissolves into irrelevant background noise.
The muscle in his jaw flexes. His version of a smile, I'm learning. The subtle tells that translate his stoic warrior exterior into something approaching human emotion. A language I'm becoming fluent in despite never intending to enroll in the course.
Heat crawls up my neck and settles in my cheeks. I duck my head, pretending intense interest in Monica's dress train, fighting the completely inappropriate grin that wants to split my face open in the middle of my sister's wedding ceremony.
This is absolutely, categorically not the moment to be having these kinds of thoughts.
This is spectacularly, overwhelmingly not the appropriate place for my brain to be wandering in this particular direction.
This is absolutely, categorically not the moment to be mentally replaying last night's activities in graphic detail while standing three feet from a priest and clutching a bouquet of peonies.
My body doesn't care about appropriate timing.
I can still feel him, the controlled power in those hands when they pinned my wrists to the mattress, the scrape of his tusks against the sensitive skin of my throat. The way he called me in a voice like gravel and possession and something deeper than I had vocabulary to name.
"You may kiss the bride."
The words return me to the present. Monica and her new husband lock lips to enthusiastic applause. I clap automatically, a bouquet tucked into the crook of my elbow, a smile plastered across my face in what I hope passes for sisterly joy rather than post-orgasmic distraction.
We process back down the aisle. The other bridesmaids giggle and wave to various groomsmen and guests. I keep my eyes forward, spine straight, trying to project the composed dignity that Monica specifically requested in her fourteen-page Maid of Honor instruction packet.
I make it approximately seven steps before I glance toward the back row again.
Kruk watches me with the focused intensity of a predator tracking prey. Not the dangerous predator, the kind that wants to eat you in the bad way. The other kind. My pulse stutters and my thighs clench and my brain shut down all higher cognitive functions in favor of base biological responses.
An elderly woman next to him makes a disapproving sound, shifting away slightly.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper, fighting back the giggle that bubbles up from my chest. The nervous laugh.
The completely inappropriate response that's gotten me in trouble at funerals and job interviews and every serious moment I've ever attempted to navigate with something resembling adult composure.
Not now. Not in front of two hundred wedding guests and my mother and the priest who already looks vaguely concerned about the giant orc in the back row wearing what appears to be a tuxedo printed on a t-shirt.
I swallow it down, force my expression into something serene and appropriate, and continue my measured walk down the aisle.
One foot in front of the other. Bouquet held at the precise angle Monica demonstrated during our bridesmaids' boot camp last month.
Shoulders back, chin up, smile soft but present.
My dress rustles with each step. The organ music swells. Somewhere to my left, Aunt Carol dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
But I feel his eyes on me the entire way.
That unwavering, intense focus prickling my skin with awareness and my breath catch in my throat.
His gaze tracks my movement like a physical touch, burning through the layers of silk and tulle and whatever structural undergarments are currently keeping my breasts in place.
The reception unfolds in a blur of champagne toasts and clinking glasses and the DJ announcing the wedding party like we're prize fighters entering a ring.
"And the Maid of Honor, Colletta Fears, accompanied by Best Man Derek Stillwell."
I paste on a smile that feels like it might crack my face and accept Derek's offered arm. He's pale. Sweating despite the temperature-controlled tent. His hand trembles slightly where it rests on my elbow, and he won't make eye contact.
Whatever Kruk told him in that parking lot this morning, it worked.
We take our places at the head table. Derek sits as far from me as physically possible while still occupying the same bench, practically plastered against the other groomsman. He keeps his eyes on his plate, his champagne glass, the floral centerpiece. Anywhere but me.
The savage part of my brain that usually stays dormant and well-behaved does a little victory dance.
Monica's new husband means the first toast. He's a nice guy.
The bar for my sister's romantic partners is unfortunately low, set by a series of previous disasters that include but are not limited to: a failed musician who lived in his parents' garage, an aspiring actor who kept getting arrested for public indecency, and a crypto bro who lost her savings in something called DogeMoonRocket.
He is boring in the way that stability often is, reliable, predictable, safe. He treats Monica like she personally hung every star in the sky, like she's something precious and irreplaceable instead of the hot mess we both know she can be.
He's absolutely, unequivocally perfect for her.
I tune out the speech, scanning the crowd until I find Kruk. He's claimed a position along the far wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Not sitting. Not eating. Just watching.
Guarding.
My phone buzzes in the tiny, useless clutch Monica insisted matched my dress. I fumble it, check the screen.
Unknown Number: The valet is incompetent. I moved the car to a more defensible position.
I stare at the message. Type back with slightly champagne-clumsy fingers.
Me: Did you intimidate a valet
Unknown Number: Affirmative. He parked it in a location vulnerable to ambush.
Me: It's a WEDDING
Unknown Number: Exactly. High-profile target. Multiple entry points. Inadequate perimeter security.
The giggle escapes before I can stop it. I slap a hand over my mouth, but it's too late. The table goes quiet. Monica's new mother-in-law gives me a look that could freeze wine.
"Sorry," I whisper. "Tickle in my throat."
Brad continues his speech. Something about knowing Monica was the one when she alphabetized his spice rack on their second date. It's sweet. It's romantic. It's completely eclipsed by the fact that I'm texting a paranoid orc who just repositioned our getaway vehicle.
Me: Thank you for not killing anyone today
Unknown Number: Day isn't over.
Me: KRUK
Unknown Number: Joking. Mostly.
I bite my lip hard, fighting another laugh. Tuck my phone away before I cause another scene. Focus on my champagne glass, on the speeches, on being the perfect Maid of Honor that Monica deserves.
But I feel his attention on me like a physical touch, warm and possessive and constant.
The DJ announces the first dance. Monica and Dennis take the floor to some sappy ballad about finding your person and never letting go. They sway together under the twinkling lights, lost in their own world, and the guests make appreciative noises.
My mother materializes at my elbow like she's been summoned, her hand already reaching for my arm with that determined grip that signals she's about to orchestrate something I won't enjoy.
"You should dance with Derek," she announces, her voice pitched at that particular frequency that sounds like a suggestion but is absolutely a command.
"It's traditional. The Maid of Honor and the Best Man. Everyone will expect it."
I follow her pointed gaze across the dance floor to where Derek stands near the bar, looking like a man who's just spotted his own execution date on the calendar.
Our eyes meet. He widened in barely concealed panic.
He glances toward the exit with the longing of a prisoner eyeing an unlocked cell door.
"I don't think Derek's feeling well," I say, injecting my voice with just the right amount of concerned sweetness, the tone I've perfected over years of getting out of family obligations.
"He actually mentioned something about food poisoning earlier.
Very sudden onset. You know how these things can be. "