He tries. The result is horrifying. His lips pull back, exposing both the gold-capped tusks and several other very sharp teeth. It looks like a threat display.
"Not like that," I say quickly. "Like—softer. Friendlier."
"I am not friendly."
"Pretend."
He stares at me, incredulous. "You hired me for intimidation. Now you want me to be soft."
"I want you to not give my grandmother a stroke." I rub my temples. The hangover is staging a comeback. "Look, can you just, when we're at the wedding, can you try to look like a normal person who's not about to murder everyone?"
"I am Orc," he says, flat. "I will never look normal to your people."
The way he saysyour peoplestings.
"That's not what I meant."
"Yes. It was." He closes the notebook, tucks it away. "But you are correct. If I am to be your fiancé, I must study the role. I must learn what is expected." His gaze sharpens. "You will teach me."
"Teach you what, exactly?"
His eyes don't leave mine.
"How to be yours."
The words hit me sideways, completely derailing whatever I was about to say. Heat crawls up my neck in a slow, mortifying wave. My face is definitely doing that blotchy thing it does when I'm flustered. I can feel it.
"I—that's not—" I swallow hard, trying to relocate my brain cells. "We'refakeengaged. You don't need to?—"
"If the performance is not believable, the mission fails." He steps closer. I step back. My spine hits the wall. "We will practice."
"Practice."
"Yes." He braces one hand on the wall beside my head, leaning in. His shadow swallows me. "Tell me. What does your fiancé do?"
My brain completely flatlines. Every coherent thought scatters like startled pigeons.
"I don't—I've never—" The words trip over themselves, going nowhere fast. My mouth opens and closes uselessly. I'm doing an excellent impression of a malfunctioning robot. "I mean, that's not really a thing I can just... explain? Like a manual?"
"You have been in relationships." It's not a question. He says it like he's stating an observable fact, like pointing out that the sky is blue or that I have coffee stains on approximately sixty percent of my wardrobe.
"Bad ones," I blurt out, then immediately wish I could stuff the words back in my mouth. "Really, really bad ones. Like, spectacularly bad. The kind where you end up changing your Netflix password and wondering if you need to move to a different state."
"What did they do? The men before." His voice drops, rough and low. "How did they touch you?"
"They didn't, I mean, not like—" I'm stammering. I never stammer. "Why does that matter?"
"Because I must do better." His eyes pin me in place. "If I am to be the one you chose, I must be what they were not."
"You're taking this very seriously," I managed.
"I take everything seriously."
"It's fake."
"It will not look fake."
Something in his tone makes my pulse kick. This was a terrible idea. I knew it the second I woke up, but now, with him standing so close I can smell leather and something sharp, like ozone before a storm, Iknowit.
