"He is attempting to diminish you," Kruk says quietly. "To make himself appear superior by highlighting your vulnerabilities."
"Yeah. I noticed."
"It is a weak tactic. Ineffective against a prepared opponent."
"I'm not prepared. I'm drunk and mortified and I want to melt into the floor."
Derek's voice rises again. "Honestly, I dodged a bullet. Can you imagine being with someone that disorganized? That chaotic? I need stability. Someone competent."
The champagne in my stomach is full-on rebelling now. My hands are shaking. That horrible prickling heat is spreadingup my neck, across my face, the kind that means tears are approximately thirty seconds away.
"Colletta."
I look up at Kruk.
His expression has gone absolutely flat. Predatory. The same look he had when he was staring down Derek earlier, but amplified. Focused.
"I require your consent," he says, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that makes something in my stomach flip over.
"For what?" I manage, though my voice comes out smaller than I'd like.
His eyes haven't left mine. They're dark. Intense. Completely focused on me like nothing else in this entire vineyard exists.
"To end this," he says simply.
I blink at him, champagne-addled brain struggling to catch up. "End what? We can't murder him, Kruk. There are witnesses. Like, two hundred of them. And cameras. Definitely cameras."
"Not murder. Domination." His hand slides from my waist to my hip, fingers tightening. "He continues to disrespect you. To mock you in front of others. This is unacceptable."
"Kruk—"
"Do you trust me?"
The question catches me off-guard. Do I trust him? I've known him for less than forty-eight hours. He's an orc I hired while drunk. He treats social situations like combat scenarios and carries concealed weapons to weddings.
But he held me when I stumbled. Fed me cheese. And counted my drinks to keep me safe.
"Yes," I whisper, the word barely audible over the pounding of my heart in my ears.
Something fierce and possessive flares in his eyes, a flash of gold in the dark depths making my breath catch. It's the lookof a predator who's just been given permission to strike. His pupils dilate slightly, and the corner of his mouth curves up in something that's not quite a smile but definitely isn't friendly.
"Then hold still," he says.
The command in those three words sends a shiver down my spine. There's no question mark. No room for negotiation. Just an absolute expectation that I will obey.
He moves before I can process what's happening, before my champagne-soaked brain can connect the dots between his predatory expression and his stated intention to "end this."
One moment I'm sitting on the stool, champagne-fuzzy and miserable, watching Derek's smug face over Kruk's shoulder and wondering how my life became this particular disaster.
Next, Kruk's hand is on the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair, tilting my head back. His other arm bands around my waist, hauling me up and against him.
His mouth crashes down on mine.
The world whites out.
He kisses like he does everything else: with absolute commitment and zero hesitation. His lips are surprisingly soft against mine, but there's nothing gentle about it. He's claiming. Consuming. His tongue sweeps into my mouth and I taste mint and something darker, richer.
My hands find his chest. My fingers curl into the fabric of his suit jacket.
