I should feel vindicated. Triumphant. Instead I just feel tired.
"It's fine," I say quietly. "Let's just move on."
Kruk doesn't move for another long moment, staring Derek down like he's memorizing his face for future targeting. Then he turns and walks back to me, his hand immediately going to my waist.
"You have egg on your dress," he says, matter-of-fact, his gaze dropping briefly to the yellow smear spreading across the pale blue fabric at my hip.
"I'm aware." My voice comes out flatter than I intend, exhaustion seeping through every syllable.
"I will find you something else to wear." It's not a suggestion. It's a statement of mission objective, delivered with the same gravity he might use to announce he's commandeering a vehicle.
"Kruk, it's fine—" I start, but I can already see the determination settling into his features, the slight narrowing of his eyes that means he's already mentally cataloguing potential clothing sources within a three-block radius.
"It is not fine." His eyes meet mine, intense and serious. "He does not get to mock you. Not while I am here."
My throat goes tight. I nod, not trusting my voice.
Monica clears her throat nervously. "So! Last activity before lunch: the sack race!"
Oh god. The sack race.
They hand out large burlap sacks and I stare at mine like it's a death sentence. Kruk takes his without comment, stepping into it like he's done this a thousand times.
We line up at the start again. Derek is conspicuously on the opposite end of the row, as far from Kruk as possible.
The whistle blows.
I jump. Kruk powers forward in smooth, impossible hops that make him look like some athletic kangaroo. I try to match his pace but the burlap tangles around my ankles, and three hops in, I feel myself going down.
The ground rushes to meet me.
Except it doesn't.
Kruk drops his sack and catches me mid-fall, one arm banding around my waist, stopping my momentum entirely. I dangle there for a second, suspended in his grip, staring up at his face.
From somewhere behind us, Derek laughs again. "Jesus, Lettie, you couldn't even?—"
Kruk sets me down carefully.
Then he abandons the race entirely and starts walking toward Derek with a single-minded, terrifying purpose.
"Oh shit," I breathe.
Monica grabs my arm. "Colletta, your boyfriend is going to murder the Best Man."
"I know," I say, my voice coming out thin and reedy, barely audible over the sudden nervous murmur rippling through the crowd of wedding guests. My eyes are locked on Kruk'sbroad back, watching those massive shoulders roll with each purposeful stride across the manicured lawn.
Monica's fingernails dig into my forearm. "Stop him!" she hisses, her voice climbing toward panic. "Colletta, I'm serious, if he hurts Derek, my mother will lose her mind. She's already on edge about the ice sculpture!"
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry despite the three mimosas I've had. "I'm not sure I can," I admit, and even as the words leave my mouth, I know how utterly pathetic they sound. What person brings a bodyguard to a wedding and then can't actually control him? The kind who hires said bodyguard while drunk on tequila, apparently. "I mean, have youseenhim when he gets like this? He doesn't exactly take constructive criticism well in the middle of a perceived threat scenario."
But I'm already running after him, still tangled in my stupid sack, hopping frantically across the lawn like some deranged rabbit.
"Kruk!" I called. "Kruk, wait!"
He doesn't wait.
Derek sees him coming and actually backs up, hands raised. "Dude, seriously, it was just?—"
