Chapter 13 #2
Derek, bless him, catches the lifeline I've thrown with both hands.
He nods frantically, one hand moving to his stomach in what might be the world's least convincing performance of gastrointestinal distress.
"Terrible," he croaks. "Absolutely terrible.
Might be contagious, actually. I should probably keep my distance from people.
Especially people I'd have to touch. Like during a dance. "
My mother's mouth purses in that particular way that means she knows exactly what we're doing but can't prove it.
She frowns, her gaze ping-ponging between Derek's theatrical discomfort and my innocent expression.
For a moment, I think she might push, might pull out the full maternal authority card, but then someone drops a fork across the tent and her attention snaps toward the catering staff like a heat-seeking missile.
"The servers need better coordination," she mutters, already drifting away, her mission redirected toward something she can actually control.
I won't waste the opportunity. The moment her back is turned, I abandon the head table like it's on fire, weaving between chairs and dodging Aunt Patricia's attempts to flag me down for what I'm sure would be an excruciating conversation about my biological clock.
The reception tent is gorgeous. Monica spared no expense.
Fairy lights drape from the ceiling in cascading waves, candles flicker in hurricane vases on every table, and the dance floor gleams like a dark mirror reflecting the glow.
Couples start joining the newlyweds, swaying to the music, wrapped up in each other.
I weave through the crowd, dodging relatives who want to ask about my love life and family friends who haven't seen me since I was twelve. My target is singular.
Kruk tracks my approach with the focus of a missile lock. He doesn't move from his position against the wall, doesn't uncross his arms, but something shifts in his posture. A subtle coiling. Readiness.
I stop in front of him, suddenly aware of how small I am next to his bulk. The top of my head barely clears his sternum. I have to tilt my face to meet his eyes.
"Dance with me."
The words come out steadier than I feel. It's not a question, not a request. It's a declaration, maybe even a plea disguised as a command.
His brow furrows, the vertical line between his eyes deepening as he processes this new directive. "I do not dance." He says it with the same finality he'd use to state that gravity exists or that fire burns.
"You don't have to be good at it." I shift my weight, still looking up at him, refusing to back down despite the sheer wall of orc muscle radiating skepticism in front of me. "You just have to hold me while we sway. That's it. No complicated footwork, no choreography. Just... movement. With me."
His eyes narrow, scanning the dance floor like he's assessing enemy territory, calculating exit routes and potential hazards.
"This seems tactically unsound." There's genuine concern in his voice, as if I've suggested we walk blindfolded through a minefield.
"Limited mobility. Compromised sight lines.
Multiple civilians in close proximity creating obstacles for rapid extraction if necessary. "
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "Humor me."
I grab his hand before he can protest further. His fingers engulf mine, rough and warm and solid. I pull him toward the dance floor, acutely aware of the way conversations pause as we pass. The stares. The whispers.
Let them look.
We reach the dancers. The song shifts to something slower, something that gives couples an excuse to press close and forget anyone else exists. I turn to face him, placing one hand on his shoulder and keeping the other clasped in his.
Kruk stands rigid, arms at awkward angles, expression suggesting he'd rather face down an enemy battalion than navigate a wedding reception dance floor.
"Relax," I murmur, squeezing his shoulder gently, trying to ease some of the tension coiled in the muscles beneath my palm.
"This is relaxed." His voice is flat, unconvincing. Every line of his body screams combat-ready alertness, not romantic swaying.
"This is terrifying," I counter, unable to keep the amusement out of my tone.
His jaw tightens, and for a moment I think I've actually offended him.
"I am not terrified of dancing." The words come out defensive, almost indignant.
Then he pauses, and something shifts in his expression, a crack in the armor.
"I am concerned about stepping on you. Your feet are small.
Easily damaged. The risk of causing injury is statistically significant given the size differential and my limited experience with this particular. .. maneuver."
A laugh bubbles up, soft and genuine. Of course he'd frame it as a tactical concern.
"Then hold me close and we'll just sway," I suggest, my voice dropping lower, more intimate.
"No steps required. No complicated formations.
Just... movement. Together. You can't step on my feet if they're not near yours, right? "
His free hand settles on my waist, tentative at first, then firmer. He pulls me in until I'm pressed against his chest, until I can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat through layers of fabric. The world narrows to the circle of his arms.
We don't dance so much as exist in proximity while music plays around us.
It's perfect.
I rest my cheek against his sternum, breathing in the scent of him. Something clean and sharp, like ozone before a storm, layered over warm skin and the faint chemical smell of whatever he used to get the grass stains out of his suit.
"You fixed the cake," I say quietly, the words muffled against his chest.
"The structural integrity was compromised," he responds, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through me. "Multiple load-bearing sections had failed. The cascading collapse was inevitable without immediate intervention."
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "You used a spatula and sheer force of will. And possibly intimidated frosting into submission."
"The tools available were adequate for the task," he says with absolute seriousness, as if we're discussing military logistics rather than a dessert-based crisis. "Structural reinforcement required precise application of pressure and strategic redistribution of mass."
I tilt my head back to look up at him, having to crane my neck at an almost uncomfortable angle to meet his eyes.
Even in heels, the height difference is ridiculous.
From this vantage point, I can see the underside of his jaw, the thick column of his throat, the way his gold-capped tusks catch the soft glow of the string lights overhead.
"You didn't have to do that," I tell him, my voice softer now, something vulnerable creeping into it.
"Fix the cake, I mean. It wasn't part of the contract. "
His expression softens in the way I'm learning to read, the minute shift around his eyes, the slight relaxation of the hard line of his mouth. "Your sister was distressed. You were distressed. I provided a solution."
"You're a good fake fiancé."
"I am an excellent fake fiancé." He's quiet for a moment. Then, quieter: "If the position were real, I would be even better."
The words hit like a punch to the solar plexus. I stop swaying. Stop breathing. Just stare at him while my brain tries to process what he just said.
"Kruk—"
"Colletta."
Monica's voice cuts through the moment like a knife. I jerk back, or try to, but Kruk's hand on my waist keeps me anchored in place. Monica appears beside us, still in her dress, makeup slightly smudged from happy tears.
She looks between us with an expression I can't quite read. Amusement? Concern? Relief?
"Can I borrow my sister for a second?"
Kruk's jaw tightens. His hand flexes on my waist, possessive and reluctant, before he releases me with obvious unwillingness.
"I will be over there." He gestures to his wall position. "Watching."
"I bet you will," Monica says, but she's smiling.
I let her pull me to the dance floor, away from the music and crowd. We end up near the dessert table, surrounded by tiny cakes and chocolate fountains and sugar flowers that probably cost more than my rent.
Monica crosses her arms. Studies me with the particular intensity of an older sister who knows all my tells and has zero patience for bullshit.
"So." Monica's voice is deceptively casual, the tone she always uses right before dropping a bomb. "The neurosurgeon."
My heart stutters. "Monica—"
"I know he's fake, Colletta."
The world tilts sideways. My stomach doesn't just drop, it plummets straight through the floor, through the foundation, all the way to the earth's molten core. Blood rushes in my ears. I open my mouth, close it, open it again like a fish gasping on dry land.
"I can explain—" The words tumble out in a panicked rush, my hands already gesturing wildly, preparing for the elaborate defense I've been mentally rehearsing for weeks.
"I don't care."
I freeze mid-gesture, one hand still raised awkwardly in the air. Blink at her. Process the words. Fail to process the words.
"You..." I lower my hand slowly. "You don't?"
She shakes her head. Reaches out and squeezes my hand.
"Colletta, I've watched you date losers for years.
Guys who needed fixing. Guys who took advantage of your big heart and your tendency to see the best in people even when the best doesn't exist. Derek was just the latest in a long line of disasters. "
"I know. I'm sorry I brought him to your wedding."
"I didn't invite Derek. Dennis did. They're college friends." She squeezes harder. "But you brought Kruk. That terrifying, devoted green giant who can't take his eyes off you for five seconds. Who fixed my cake and intimidated Derek into silence and looked at you like you're magic."
"He doesn't—"
"He does. Everyone can see it. Even Mom, and she's been three glasses deep in champagne since the ceremony started.
" Monica's expression turns serious. "I don't care if you met him at a library or gym.
" I care that when you look at him, you look happy.
I'm actually happy. Not performing happy or pretending happy or the happy that's really just anxiety wearing a smile. "
My throat tightens. "It started as fake."
"And now?"
I glance back toward Kruk. He's exactly where he said he'd be, positioned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with that intensity that makes my bones feel liquid and my heart do complicated acrobatics.
"Now it's the most real thing in my life."
Monica grins. Pulls me into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and wedding flowers. "Good. Keep him. And if he ever hurts you, I'll hit him with my bouquet."
"That's not much of a threat."
"It's symbolic." She pulls back, mascara slightly smudged, eyes bright. "Now go dance with your fake fiancé. I have a husband to seduce in about twenty minutes and I need you to distract Mom."
I laugh. Actually laugh, bright and real and untainted by nerves. "Deal."
She floats back toward Dennis, and I turn to find Kruk crossing the dance floor toward me. He moves through the crowd like a battleship parting waves, completely unaware or uncaring about the space people give him.
He stops in front of me. Offers his hand.
"Another dance?"
I take it. "Always."
We return to the floor. This time he holds me tighter, more confident in the motion. I wrap my arms around his neck and let myself sink into the feel of him.
The song shifts to something uptempo but we don't change our rhythm. Just keep swaying, locked together, ignoring the world.
Kruk's breath stirs my hair, warm and steady against my temple. His voice rumbles against my ear when he speaks, low and private, like we're the only two people in the entire reception hall.
"I have a surprise for the honeymoon suite."
My heart does a little skip, not entirely from nerves this time. I pull back just enough to look up at him, tilting my head so I can see his face properly. His expression is unreadable in that way it usually is, all stoic intensity and unwavering focus. "What surprise?"
"A good one." His tone is matter-of-fact, like that explains everything.
I can't help the small laugh that escapes. "That's not ominous at all. Coming from a guy who considers tactical gear an appropriate anniversary gift."
His mouth quirks at the corner. Almost a smile, the kind that transforms his entire face for just a second, softening all those hard edges. "Trust me."
And the terrifying, wonderful, absolutely insane thing is that I do.
Completely.
Without hesitation or second-guessing or any of the usual spiral of anxiety that normally accompanies my decision-making process.
I trust him. This orc who appeared in my life because of tequila and desperation, who calls wedding guests "potential hostiles" and treats buffet lines like tactical operations.
Who holds me like I'm something precious.
Who looks at me like I'm the mission objective he's been waiting his whole life to secure.