An Orc. Not the cute, slightly-green-skinned romance novel kind. Theterrifyingkind. Shaved head except for a single thick braid that hung down his back like a war trophy. Tribal tattoos crawling up his neck and onto his face in patterns that looked like they meant something violent. Gold-capped tusks glinting under the dim bar lights.
He'd been wearing a tuxedo t-shirt, one of those things that's supposed to be ironic but on him looked like some bizarre formal declaration of war.
I'd stared, frozen with my empty margarita glass still raised halfway to my lips. He'd stared back, utterly unblinking, his pale eyes tracking over me with the methodical precision of a predator cataloging weaknesses. I could practically see him noting downsmall, unsteady on feet, reeks of tequilain some mental ledger.
The silence stretched between us across the dimly lit bar. Somewhere behind me, someone dropped a glass. I didn't flinch. Neither did he.
"He's perfect," I'd whispered, and I think I might have been drooling a little.
Margarita Colletta, it turns out, had absolutely no sense of self-preservation. Sober Colletta was going to haveopinionsabout this decision, but Sober Colletta wasn't driving right now, and Margarita Colletta had just found her emotional support Orc.
I walked over. He'd looked down at me, all six-foot-something of muscle and menace, and waited.
"I need to hire you," I'd said.
His eyes had narrowed. "For what."
"My sister's wedding. I need a fiancé. Fake," I'd added quickly. "Just for the day. You stand next to me, look scary, maybe growl at my ex a little."
He'd considered this proposal with the slow, deliberate gravity of a general reviewing battle plans before a siege. His massive arms had crossed over his chest, and I watched the leather of his vest creak ominously under the strain. The bar noise faded into a distant hum as those pale eyes fixed on me with an intensity that suggested he was genuinely weighing the strategic merits of my absurd request.
"You are being threatened?" His voice had been low, rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest.
I'd blinked, trying to organise my tequila-soaked thoughts into something resembling coherence. "Emotionally," I'd clarified, nodding perhaps too enthusiastically. "Very emotionally. There's passive aggression. Pointed comments about my life choices. My sister will definitely mention my career at least six times, and my mother has opinions about my hair."
He nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense, like emotional warfare was still warfare and therefore fell well within his professional purview. "I accept."
The relief had been dizzying. Or maybe it was just margaritas. "Great. That's—that's great. How much do you charge for something like this?"
He'd named a price. I'd written a check I definitely couldn't afford and signed a contract on a bar napkin. Then he'd pulled out anactual contractfrom somewhere, the fancy one currently crumpling in my hand, and made me sign that too.
"I will protect you," he'd said, and it sounded like a vow.
I giggled.
He hadn't.
My consciousness jumps back to the present.
"No, no, no."
I lunge for my phone, which is hanging half off the bed like it tried to escape during the night. The screen is cracked. There's a text from my sister, four crying-laughing emojis and the wordscant wait for u to meet Dereks new girlfriend shes SO SWEET.
I make a noise that belongs in a haunted house, something between a wheeze and a whimper, strangled and desperate, the sound of every bad decision I've ever made condensing into a single vocalization.
My fingers fly across the screen, swiping frantically through my contacts. I need to scroll. I need to find his number. Find Kruk's number, it's in here somewhere, filed under what, exactly? "Orc Bodyguard"? "Margarita Mistake"? I can't remember what I put in. My thumb slips. The phone tilts dangerously. I need to cancel this before he actually shows up, before this becomes real, before?—
My doorbell rings.
The sound cuts through my apartment like a guillotine blade.
I freeze completely, every muscle in my body locking up at once. My thumb hovers over the screen. My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my throat and just... stays there.
It rings again. Not the polite double-tap of a delivery person. A single, long press. Assertive. The ring that saysI know you're there.
My brain goes into freefall.
It can't be him. It's nine in the morning. The wedding isn't for three days. Maybe it's a package. Maybe it's my neighbor asking to borrow an egg again, even though I've never baked anything in my life and she knows this.
