"Removing heads," I mutter into his bicep, which is warm and solid and smells faintly of something woodsy that I refuse to acknowledge because we're currently in crisis mode. "That's what you led with. Removing heads. At a wedding."
"It was technically accurate," Kruk says, his voice rumbling through the muscle I'm pressed against. There's no defensiveness in his tone, just that same matter-of-fact delivery he uses for everything from ordering coffee to describing what I'm now realizing might be actual decapitations. "I have removed many heads."
Oh god.
"Please stop talking," I hissed, my words muffled against his arm. My face is burning so hot I'm pretty sure I'm leaving a mark on his shirt. "Please, for the love of everything holy, stop talking about head removal in public places where people are celebrating love and commitment."
There's a pause.
A beat of silence where I can feel him processing my request, running it through whatever tactical analysis system operates in that terrifying brain of his.
"Acknowledged," he says finally.
I raise my head and find Brie staring at us with wide eyes and a very fixed smile.
"So," she says carefully. "The Lover's Loft?"
I look up at Kruk.
He looks down at me.
His expression is completely unreadable, all hard angles and ink and those dark, steady eyes that seem to see right through my skin and into the chaotic mess underneath.
"We will take it," he says.
"Great!" Brie's relief is palpable. She starts typing again, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I'll just need a credit card and ID from both of you, and then I can get you checked in and?—"
A sound cuts through her words.
Low.
Subsonic.
It starts somewhere deep in Kruk's chest and rolls outward like distant thunder, a vibration I feel more than hear. The desk trembles. The little bell sitting next to the guest book rattles against the wood.
Brie stops typing.
I freeze.
Kruk's gaze has locked onto something behind me, his entire body gone still in that way predators do right before they strike.
I turn.
Derek is standing by the coffee station, pouring himself a cup, but his eyes are on me. On us. That same smug expression on his face, like he's watching a car crash and enjoying every second of it.
The growl intensifies.
It's not loud. It doesn't have to be. It bypasses the ears entirely and goes straight to some primal part of the brainthat remembers when humans were prey animals and large predators with sharp teeth were a fact of daily life.
Derek's hand jerks. Coffee sloshes over the rim of his cup and onto the pristine white tablecloth.
Madison appears at his elbow, says something I can't hear, and physically pulls him toward the hallway.
He goes.
The growl stops.
Kruk's focus shifts back to Brie, who looks like she's reconsidering every life choice that led her to this moment.
