My mate.
The word sits heavy and right in my mind, an anchor point I did not expect to find in this strange human world of vineyard weddings and pastel color schemes. I have claimed her in every way that matters. Now I will remove obstacles that threaten her peace.
I pull on my pants and move to the window, scanning the parking lot below. The venue is already bustling with activity. Florists carry massive arrangements of white flowers. Catering vans unload trays covered in silver. And there, near a row of expensive cars, I spot my target.
Derek. Wearing athletic shorts and a polo shirt, talking on his phone with the smug posture of a man who thinks he holds all the cards.
He is wrong.
I check the time. Zero-six-hundred hours. The ceremony begins at eleven. That gives me five hours to neutralize the threat and prepare for the main event.
Sufficient.
I shower quickly, letting the hot water sluice over the muscles I worked hard last night in the most pleasant form of combat I have ever experienced. My body is loose, satisfied, but my mind is sharp. I run through the plan, adjusting variables, accounting for potential complications.
When I emerge, Colletta is stirring, one eye cracking open to peer at me.
"Morning," she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep and other activities. Her gaze drops to the towel wrapped around my waist, and I watch color bloom across her cheeks. "We really... we actually..."
"We mated," I confirm, moving toward the dresser where my clothes are laid out. I pull on the tight black boxer-briefs she purchased for me during yesterday's emergency shopping expedition—one of many chaotic errands that seem to follow in Colletta's wake like debris in a storm. The fabric stretches across my thighs, snug but not restrictive. Functional. "Repeatedly," I add, because accuracy matters, and because the flush creeping down her neck tells me she enjoys the reminder of what we did in this bed.
She makes a strangled noise that's half-squeak, half-groan, and immediately hides her face in the pillow, her wild hair fanning out across the white fabric like dark ink spilled on snow.
I watch her for a moment, cataloging the way her shoulders shake with what might be laughter or embarrassment or possibly both. Wonderful, but strange. I cross to the bed with measured steps, the floor cool beneath my bare feet, and sit on the edge. The mattress dips under my weight. I rest one hand on the curve of her hip through the sheet, feeling the warmth of her body, the steady rise and fall of her breathing. She is real. She is mine. Knowledge sits on my chest like a victory banner.
"Get dressed," I tell her, keeping my voice firm but not harsh. She responds well to clear direction, especially when her thoughts are scattered. "The ceremony begins soon."
She shoots upright, hair exploding around her face like a startled animal. "Oh god, I have to help Monica get ready, and there's the bridal breakfast, and I need to check on the flowers because last night she was convinced the peonies looked wilted?—"
"Colletta." I cup her face in my hand, thumb brushing her cheekbone until her frantic rambling stops. "Breathe. You will handle the wedding preparations. I will handle Derek."
Her eyes widened. "Handle him how? Kruk, you can't just... I mean, murder is frowned upon at weddings?—"
"No murder," I assure her, though I keep my options flexible. "Just a conversation. Man to man."
"That's what I'm afraid of," she mutters, but I can see the relief in her eyes, the way her shoulders drop from where they had climbed up near her ears. She wants me to fix this. She needs me to protect her, even from the small cruelties of men like Derek.
I will not disappoint her. The thought settles into my bones like an oath, binding and absolute.
I lean in and kiss her, taking my time with it, thorough and possessive in a way that leaves no room for doubt about who she belongs to. My hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in those wild curls as I tilt her head to the exact angle I want. She makes a soft sound against my mouth, something between a whimper and a sigh, and her body becomes pliant under my touch. Surrendering. Trusting.
When I finally pull back, her eyes are glazed and unfocused, pupils blown wide, lips parted and swollen from the pressure of mine. She looks thoroughly claimed, and the sight of it, ofherlike this, sends a surge of possessive satisfaction through my chest.
"Trust me," I say, my voice low and steady, a promise wrapped in command.
"I do," she whispers, and the words land in my chest like a vow, like something sacred and binding. The simple admission affects me more than it should. She trusts me. This chaotic, brilliant woman who makes terrible decisions after three margaritas and fills awkward silences with facts about serial killers—she trustsmeto handle this. To protect her. To fix what needs fixing.
I stroke my thumb across her lower lip one more time, committing the soft catch of her breath to memory.
I leave her scrambling to get ready and take the stairs down to the parking lot, moving with the silent precision that served me well in the fighting pits and the border wars. Derek is still on his phone, pacing near a silver convertible that probably costs more than most people's homes.
He does not hear me approach until I am directly behind him. My movements are silent, honed from years of practice, first in the fighting pits where a misplaced step could mean death, then in security work where observation withoutdetection often meant the difference between a successful mission and catastrophe.
The gravel doesn't crunch beneath my boots. The air doesn't shift to announce my presence. I am simply there, a shadow made solid, looming over him while he remains oblivious, absorbed in whatever conversation he's having on his phone.
I let the silence stretch for three full seconds, watching the back of his neck, the casual way he leans against his expensive car, completely unaware that the tactical situation has shifted entirely out of his favor.
"We need to talk," I say, my voice low and even, carrying absolute certainty.
