We run.
CHAPTER 9
COLLETTA
We sprint toward the screams, my sandals sliding on the gravel path, Kruk maintaining a controlled pace beside me even though he could easily outrun me. His hand hovers near the small of my back, ready to catch me if I stumble.
Monica stands in the middle of the reception tent, both hands pressed to her mouth, making small keening sounds. Around her, a crowd of wedding guests forms a horrified semicircle, all staring at the same thing.
The cake.
The beautiful, five-tiered, fondant-covered masterpiece that cost more than my car payment sits in ruins on its table. The top three tiers have slid sideways, creating a leaning tower of buttercream and broken dreams. Frosting flowers litter the tablecloth like casualties of war. A cascade of edible pearls rolls across the white linen, disappearing over the edge one by one.
"Oh my God," I breathe, skidding to a stop beside my sister. "Monica, what happened?"
"I don't know!" Her voice climbs toward hysteria, her carefully applied makeup starting to run as tears well in her eyes. "They delivered it early! The coordinator said the AC made thefrosting too soft and it just... collapsed. The wedding is ruined. Ruined!"
Kruk steps forward, his imposing frame cutting through the crowd like a blade through water. The guests part automatically, some flinching away from his tattoos and gold-capped tusks.
He circles the table slowly, assessing the damage with the same intense focus he uses for everything. His eyes narrow as he studies the angle of the tilt, the structural failures, the pattern of frosting smears.
"The foundation is intact," he announces, his deep voice cutting through Monica's sobs. "The base tier remains stable. The collapse originated at the third tier. Poor weight distribution."
Monica hiccups, staring at him. "What?"
"It can be fixed." He rolls his shoulders back, cracking his neck to one side. "I will need tools. A spatula. Wooden dowels. Additional frosting if available."
I blink at him, my brain struggling to process the image of this massive Orc warrior discussing cake architecture. "You... you know how to fix a wedding cake?"
"I know how to fix structural failures," he corrects, already pushing up his sleeves to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The muscles flex and shift beneath his skin, and I have to force myself to focus. "The principles are universal. Load-bearing support. Reinforcement. Strategic redistribution of mass."
The wedding coordinator, a tiny woman with a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, steps forward nervously. "Sir, I appreciate the offer, but perhaps we should just call the bakery and?—"
"I can do it." Kruk's gaze sweeps over her, then returns to the cake. "Bring me the supplies."
Something in his tone makes it clear this is not a suggestion.
The coordinator scurries away. Monica grabs my arm, her nails digging into my skin through my sleeve.
"Is he really a neurosurgeon?" she whispers frantically, mascara tracks streaking her cheeks. "Because right now I need a cake surgeon more than anything in my entire life."
"He's... versatile," I manage, watching Kruk circle the table again, muttering to himself in what sounds like Orcish. "Very versatile."
The coordinator returns with an armful of supplies. Kruk accepts them without comment, laying everything on the table with military precision. Spatulas arranged by size. A package of wooden dowels. Three containers of extra buttercream frosting in varying shades of ivory.
Then he goes to work.
I have never seen anything like it.
His massive hands, hands that could crush bone, move with surgical delicacy. He uses the spatula like an extension of his arm, smoothing frosting, coaxing the collapsed tiers back into alignment. He measures distances with his eyes, inserting dowels at calculated intervals, reinforcing the structure from within.
The crowd watches in stunned silence.
Sweat beads on his forehead despite the air conditioning. A smear of buttercream marks his cheek. His jaw is set in concentration, that same intensity he brought to the three-legged race now focused entirely on salvaging my sister's wedding cake.
He works for forty minutes straight, never pausing, never hesitating. His movements are methodical, patient. When a frosting flower breaks, he repairs it with three careful touches of the spatula. When a tier threatens to slide again, he catches it, holds it steady, waits for the frosting to set.
This terrifying Orc warrior, this man I hired three margaritas deep to intimidate my ex-boyfriend, is saving my sister's wedding with the same dedication he brought to protecting me from a waiter with a pepper grinder.
