Chapter 14
KRUK
The trust in her eyes does something dangerous to my chest. Makes it feel tighter and looser at the same time, like armor cracking under pressure I didn't know existed until now.
I spent years in the war pits learning to read opponents. How to calculate trajectory and force. How to identify weaknesses and exploit them with precision. None of that prepared me for what happens when Colletta Fears looks at me like I'm not a weapon. Like I'm something worth keeping.
The song ends. Another one starts, slower, strings heavy in the melody. She doesn't pull away. Neither do I.
Her sister's words echo in my skull. He looks at you like you're magic.
Magic is imprecise. Unpredictable. The variable that ruins tactical planning and gets people killed in the field.
But if Colletta is magic, then I've been under the spell since the moment she stumbled into that bar three margaritas deep and hired me to intimidate her ex-boyfriend at a wedding.
Since she giggled nervously when I threatened the valet.
Since she kissed me back against the hotel door like she was trying to crawl inside my skin and make a home there.
I tighten my grip on her waist. She makes a small sound, something soft and surprised, and leans into me harder.
"When do we leave?" she asks against me, her voice muffled by the fabric of my shirt, vibrating through my ribcage in a way that causes my entire body hyper-aware of her presence.
I don't hesitate. The answer has already been calculated, assessed, and determined to be the optimal course of action. "Now."
She pulls back. Blinks up at me, curls wild around her face, lipstick slightly smudged from where she bit her lip during the vows. "Now? The reception just started. There's still cake cutting and the bouquet toss and—"
"Acceptable losses." I scan the room. The bride is occupied with her new husband. The guests are drunk and distracted. Derek is nowhere in sight, probably still recovering from our earlier conversation on the balcony. The tactical window is open. "We extract now."
"Extract." Her mouth twitches. "You make it sound like a military operation."
"All operations are military operations if you approach them correctly."
She laughs. Full and bright and completely unguarded. It hits me somewhere below the ribs, sharp and sweet like a blade coated in honey. "You're insane."
"Focused." I corrected her. Then, because the impulse overrides every protocol I've ever learned about maintaining professional distance, I bend down and lift her.
Not bridal style, which would require a different tactical configuration and wouldn't provide the necessary security advantage.
Over my shoulder, in a fireman's carry, because it leaves one hand free for defensive maneuvers and keeps her center of gravity aligned with mine.
She shrieks. Grabs onto my jacket for balance, her voice pitching higher with surprise and something that might be delightful. "Kruk! What are you—put me down!"
"No."
The guests notice. Of course they notice. A few of them start cheering. Someone whistles. Monica looks over from where she's cutting the cake with her husband, sees us, and grins like she just won a bet.
I carry Colletta through the reception hall, her fists lightly pounding against my back in a rhythm that lacks any real conviction. She's laughing too hard to be genuinely angry, and the sound wraps around me like a second skin.
"This is kidnapping!" she manages between gasps.
"Tactical retrieval of a high-value asset," I correct her, my tone allowing no room for debate.
I adjust my grip slightly as we round a corner, keeping her perfectly balanced.
"You signed a contract. The terms were clear and comprehensive.
I am simply fulfilling my obligations to the letter of that agreement. "
"The contract was for protection, not abduction!" Her voice pitches higher, though I can hear the laughter threaded through her protest, feel the way her body has gone loose and pliant against me rather than tense with genuine resistance.
"Semantics." I navigate past a cluster of elderly guests who've wandered into the hallway.
One of them, a woman with hair the color of steel wool and a dress covered in sequins, gives me an approving nod and a thumbs up.
I acknowledge her with a slight incline of my head.
"Protection includes extraction from hostile social environments.
The threat level was escalating. I assessed the situation and acted accordingly. "
We pass Derek on the way out. He's standing near the bar, pale and sweating, clutching a glass of whiskey like it's a life raft. His eyes go wide when he sees us. I maintain eye contact until we're through the door, letting him see exactly how thoroughly he's lost.
The night air hits cool against my skin as we step through the venue's main entrance, the contrast sharp after the overheated reception hall.
Colletta shivers slightly, a delicate tremor that runs through her entire frame, and I adjust my grip immediately, shifting her weight more securely against me, ensuring she's warm and protected.
I angle my body to shield her from the worst of the evening breeze, tucking her more firmly against the heat of my back and shoulders.
"You're going to wrinkle your suit," she says, her voice muffled against the fabric stretched across my shoulder blades. There's no real concern in the observation, just that particular tone she gets when she's pointing out consequences that don't actually matter to either of us.
"Acceptable collateral damage," I reply evenly, my stride never faltering as I carry her across the parking area toward the main building entrance.
She snorts—that inelegant, genuine laugh that she tries to suppress in polite company but never quite manages.
Then she goes boneless against me, melting into my hold with complete and utter trust, her muscles loosening, her weight settling more fully across my shoulder.
The shift in her body language, the absolute surrender of tension, makes my pulse kick harder against my ribs, a surge of possessive satisfaction rolling through my chest like thunder.
The walk to the honeymoon suite is short.
I memorized the layout on arrival, noted all exits and entry points, calculated response times for security.
Standard procedure. What I didn't account for was having to navigate the hallways with Colletta draped over my shoulder, giggling and occasionally directing me with unhelpful instructions like "left, no your other left" and "there's a potted plant coming up, don't impale me on decorative ferns. "
I don't impale her.
The door to the suite appears. I shift her weight, fish the key card from my pocket, and swipe it in one smooth motion. The lock clicks green. I push through.
The room is exactly as we left it this morning. Heart-shaped bed. Ridiculous rose petals scattered across the duvet. Champagne chilling in a bucket by the window. I set Colletta down, steadying her when she wobbles slightly on her heels.
She looks up at me. Cheeks flushed. Eyes bright. Hair completely destroyed in the best possible way.
"So," she says. "Where's this surprise?"
I cross to the mini-fridge. Pull out the container I stashed there earlier while she was getting ready for the ceremony. Set it on the table next to a pair of handcuffs I acquired from the security office with a carefully worded request about "emergency restraint protocols."
Colletta stares. At the strawberries, glistening red and fresh against the white porcelain.
At the handcuffs, their metal catches the dim lamplight, throwing small reflections across the table's polished surface.
Then back to me, her expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something darker that makes her pupils dilate.
"You're serious." Her voice comes out quieter than usual, almost breathless.
"I am always serious." I state it as fact, because it is. I don't understand jokes about intentions. When I plan something, I execute it.
Her throat works, the movement visible as she swallows hard.
She takes a step closer, then another, until she's within arm's reach of the table.
Her fingers extend, trembling slightly, whether from the alcohol or anticipation, I cannot determine, and trace the cuff mechanism.
The curved steel. The release lever. The double-lock system that requires deliberate action to disengage.
"These are real," she whispers, and it's not quite a question, but I answer anyway.
"Reinforced steel. Rated for two hundred kilograms of resistance.
Standard issue for high-risk detainment scenarios.
" I watch her face carefully, cataloging every microexpression.
The way her breathing has become shallow.
The flush creeped down from her cheeks. The slight parting of her lips. "They will hold."
Color floods her cheeks, spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress. Her breathing changes, going shallow and quick. She picks up a strawberry instead of handcuffs, flipping it into her fingers.
"And the strawberries?"
"You taste like them," I say. Simple fact. "After the champagne at the welcome party. When I kissed you. I wanted more."
The strawberry drops. She closes the distance between us in two steps, hands fisting in my jacket, pulling me down. "Kruk—"
"Wait." I catch her wrists. Gently, but firm enough that she goes still. "There is something else first."
I release her. Move to my bag in the corner and retrieve the contract. The one she signed four days ago in a moment of tequila-fueled desperation. The paper is creased from being folded in my pocket, edges soft from handling.
I carry it back to her. Hold it out.
She takes it, confusion flickering across her expression. "What are we—"
I produce a lighter. Flick it open. Touch the flame to the bottom corner of the contract.