"I'm certain."
Liar, my pulse whispers against my throat. Liar, liar, liar.
CHAPTER 4
KRUK
The bed's structural integrity is acceptable.
I test the frame's load-bearing capacity with a series of controlled presses along the perimeter. The joints hold. No creaking. The mattress is softer than optimal for defensive maneuvering, but adequate for rest. The heart shape creates blind spots at the upper curves where an enemy could approach undetected, but given the single point of entry and my position between the door and Colletta's probable sleeping location, the risk is manageable.
"Are you... testing the bed's weight limit?"
Colletta stands near the window, arms crossed, watching me with that expression I'm learning to recognize. Eyes slightly wider than baseline. Lips pressed together like she's trying not to laugh or scream. I haven't determined which yet.
"Affirmative. Maximum load capacity appears to be four hundred pounds, possibly more. Sufficient for our operational needs."
"Our operational needs," she repeats slowly. "Right. Because we might need to... what, fortify our position on the heart-shaped bed during the wedding reception?"
I straighten, considering the scenario. "Unlikely, but preparedness prevents casualties."
She makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a whimper and turns to her suitcase.
The explosion happens immediately.
Clothes erupt from the luggage like she packed them under pressure. Dresses, undergarments, shoes, some small bag that spills cosmetics across the carpet. A hair dryer cord whips out and nearly takes out the champagne bottle. Everything is wrinkled, mismatched, chaotic.
Like her.
I retrieve my pack from where I set it by the door, kneel, and begin unpacking with proper protocol. Folded loincloths, stacked by color: black, dark gray, darker gray. My spare boots. Blade maintenance kit. The tactical folder Colletta made me leave in the car, which I retrieved anyway because only a fool enters unknown territory completely unarmed.
"Oh my god," Colletta breathes from behind me. "Did you fold your loincloths into perfect squares?"
"Proper equipment maintenance ensures operational readiness."
"They'reloincloths."
"All gear deserves respect." I place the final stack in the dresser drawer, each pile aligned precisely with the edges. When I turn, she's staring at me with that look again, the one that makes something shift uncomfortable. Unfamiliar.
"You're..." She leaves, shaking her head. "Never mind. I need to change the cocktail thing. So, um. No looking."
I nod once. "Understood."
She points at the window. "Face that way."
I move to the window as ordered, positioning myself with my back to the room. Outside, the vineyard stretches in neat rows toward the hills. Good sightlines. Multiple approach vectors.The main building is two hundred meters northeast. I count the visible exits.
Behind me, fabric rustles.
I should focus on the tactical assessment. Map the grounds. Identify chokepoints and potential threats. This is what I was contracted to do: protect her, project strength, ensure mission success.
But the window is reflective.
Not clearly. Not like a mirror. Just enough that I can see her shadow-shape moving in the glass, blurred and indistinct but unmistakably there. She pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it toward her suitcase. It lands on the floor three feet away. She doesn't seem to notice or care.
Her skin is pale in the dim reflection. Soft. So different from mine.
She reaches behind her back to unfasten her undergarment, arching slightly with the motion, and something hot coils low in my gut. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome. I'm supposed to be professional. Mission-focused.
