A sound escapes her. Half laugh, half sob. She covers her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking.
I freeze. Scan her face for distress indicators. "You are crying. Did I miscalculate? I can adjust the terms?—"
"Shut up." She drops her hand. Tears streak down her cheeks but she's smiling, wide and incredulous and so bright it makes my chest ache. "You giant ridiculous romantic disaster of an orc, shut up."
Then she shoves me.
I'm not expecting it. Take a step back on pure instinct, and another when she advances, and then the backs of my knees hit the heart-shaped bed and I go down.
The mattress absorbs my weight with a soft whoosh. I land flat on my back, staring up at her. She follows me down, climbing onto the bed, straddling my hips, hands braced on my chest.
"New terms," she says. Voice shaking. "You don't get to make speeches like that and then wait for me to respond with something coherent. That's not fair. You broke my brain."
"Unintentional." I settle my hands on her thighs. Feel her warmth through the sheer fabric of her dress. "Do you accept?"
"Accept what? The proposal? The alliance? The indefinite—" She breaks off. Shakes her head. More tears fall but she's still smiling. "Yes. All of it. Whatever you want to call it, yes."
Relief hits like a concussion. I pull her down, rolling us in one smooth motion so she's beneath me, caged in by my arms and my weight and the breadth of my shoulders blocking out everything else.
She gasps, a sharp, startled sound that shivers through the narrow space between us. Her back arches instinctively, pressing up into me like she's trying to eliminate every millimeter of distance, to fuse herself against the solid weight of my body pinning her to the mattress. The movement shifts her hips beneath mine, creates friction that makes my brain short-circuit for a dangerous second before tactical discipline reasserts itself.
Her hands come up, trembling slightly as they find my face. Palms flatten against my jaw, fingers spreading across the tribal ink that marks my cheekbones. Warm. Soft. Anchoring me in a way that has nothing to do with physical strength and everythingto do with the way shetouchesme, like I'm something precious instead of something weapon-grade.
She pulls, not hard but insistent, bringing my head down until our foreheads meet. The contact grounds something wild that's been running loose ever since she saidyes.
"I love you," she whispers. "I'm in love with you. The real you, not the fake fiancé or the bodyguard or whatever other role you thought you were playing. You. Kruk. The orc who fixes cakes and threatens exes and treats wedding receptions like hostile territory."
The words land like arrows. Precise. Devastating. Perfectly aimed at every weak point in my armor I didn't know existed until she found them.
"Colletta." Her name tastes like a vow. Like something sacred I'm not supposed to touch but can't stop reaching for anyway.
"Say it back." She tightens her grip on my face. "Or don't. I don't need?—"
"I love you. From the moment you hired me. From the first time you laughed at something I said without fear. You are the mission I did not know I was looking for."
Her expression crumples, features shifting through a dozen emotions in the space of a heartbeat, surprise, joy, something that looks dangerously close to tears. Beautiful. Completely wrecked. Undone in the best possible way. "That's the most Kruk thing you've ever said," she manages, voice breaking on a laugh that sounds wet and overwhelmed. "Comparing me to a mission. Making a declaration of love sound like a tactical briefing."
I study her face, cataloging every detail. The shine in her eyes. The tremor in her bottom lip. The flush spread across her cheeks. "Is that acceptable?" I ask, because I need to be certain. Need confirmation that I haven't miscalculated this critical moment. "Have I expressed this correctly?"
"It's perfect." She pulls me down. Kisses me hard, messy, graceless and real and better than anything I've felt in my entire violent life. "Now shut up and sign the treaty."
I kissed her again instead of answering. Deeper this time. Thorough. My hands find the zipper of her dress, sliding it down with more care than I use for anything else, like she's explosive material that requires delicate handling.
She pulls at my jacket. I help her, shrug and throw it aside. The tie goes next. Then the buttons of my shirt, her fingers fumbling slightly, impatient and eager and making small frustrated sounds when the fabric doesn't cooperate.
I catch her wrists mid-fumble. Pin them gently but firmly above her head with one hand, pressing them into the pillow. The change in position makes her pause, makes her breath hitch in that way that tells me everything I need to know.
She goes completely still beneath me. Her body tenses for just a moment before releasing into something softer, more yielding. She looks up at me with those dark eyes, pupils blown wide, lips parted and swollen from kissing. Her chest heaves with each breath, rising and falling rapidly against mine.
The handcuffs sit on the nightstand where I placed them earlier. Visible. Available. A question I've been waiting to ask.
"The handcuffs, do you want them?"
Her throat works visibly as she swallows. I watch the movement, fascinated by the vulnerability of it, by the trust already evident in how she hasn't tried to pull her wrists free from my grip.
"Yes." The word comes out rough. Certain. No hesitation despite the way her pulse races beneath my fingers.
I need to be clear. Need her to understand the terms of engagement. "Tell me if it becomes too much. At any point. I will stop immediately."
