"Kruk—"
"I will learn," he says, and it's not a question. "You will teach me. And at the wedding, you will stand beside me, and no one will doubt that you are mine."
"I'm not?—"
"For the mission," he corrects, but his gaze doesn't waver. "You are mine for the mission."
I should argue. I should shove him back and tell him this is ridiculous and cancel everything.
Instead, I hear myself whisper, "Okay."
His mouth curves. Not the horrifying smile from before. Something slower. Sharper.
"Good." He straightens, releasing me from the cage of his arm. "We begin now."
"Now?"
"The wedding is in three days. We have much to prepare." He looks around my apartment again, calculating. "First, you will tell me everything about the event. The guests. The layout. The timing."
"It's a wedding, not a heist."
"All events are tactical." He pulls out his notebook. "Who will be there?"
I sigh. List off names. My sister, the bride. Her fiancé, Marcus, who's bland but harmless. My parents. Aunts, uncles, cousins I haven't seen since I was twelve and accidentally set the Thanksgiving table on fire.
"And Derek," Kruk says, his voice flattening on the name.
"And Derek," I repeat, trying to keep my tone casual and failing spectacularly.
"With his new girlfriend."
I freeze mid-gesture. I'd completely forgotten I'd mentioned that detail to him, probably during one of my rambling panic-spirals when he'd first arrived. The fact that he'd filed it away, catalogued it like some threat assessment, makes my stomach do something uncomfortable.
"Yeah," I say weakly.
"What is her name?" He's got his pen poised over the notebook now, like he's about to add her to some tactical database.
"I don't know. Something perky. Probably Madison or Madison or—" I wave my hand vaguely, as if I can conjure the archetype into existence. "—something that sounds like a cheerleader who sells essential oils on the side."
"You are afraid of her," Kruk says. It's not a question. It's a flat statement of fact, delivered with the confidence of someone who's just identified the enemy's position.
"I'm notafraid," I protest, but even I can hear how defensive I sound.
He gives me a look, one of those long, measured stares that makes me feel like he's reading my entire psychological profile in real-time.
"Fine," I mutter. "Maybe I'm a little afraid she's going to be perfect and tiny and good at yoga and I'm going to look like a disaster in comparison."
"You are not a disaster."
"I have coffee on my shirt from yesterday."
"That is... tactical camouflage."
I laugh. It bursts out of me, sharp and too loud, the nervous kind I can't control. Kruk's expression shifts, something almost curious crossing his face.
"You laugh when you are uncomfortable."
"I laugh when things are funny."
