Page 75 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"Of course it does."
"And a full dossier on your ex-boyfriend, including his current address, employment history, and documented pattern of financial irresponsibility."
Her eyebrows lift.
"Are you planning to kill him?"
"No. But the intelligence is available should circumstances require reevaluation of that position."
She laughs again, shaking her head, and sets the binder carefully on the side table before wrapping her arms around me.
"I love you," she says simply. "And your terrifying organizational skills."
I rest my chin on top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with the faint jasmine of her perfume.
"I love you as well," I murmur. "Though I maintain the binder represents reasonable due diligence, not obsession."
"Keep telling yourself that, big guy."
We stand there in comfortable silence, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and the evidence of our merging lives, and I experience something I have not allowed myself to feel in a very long time.
Peace.
The following week,I wake at precisely zero-five-thirty, as I have every morning for the past fifteen years.
My internal clock does not recognize weekends or holidays or the fact that I no longer work for the gig agency that demanded such rigid discipline.
I lie still for a moment, listening to Bliss's soft breathing beside me, her body curved against mine, one of her legs tangled between my much larger ones.
She is wearing one of my shirts, the fabric hanging nearly to her knees, and her hair is a wild tangle across the pillow.
She is perfect.
I carefully extract myself from the bed, moving with the silent precision that comes from years of tactical training, and pull on a pair of sweatpants before heading to the kitchen.
My new security firm officially launches in three weeks.
The contracts are already signed, a corporate executive who flinches at loud noises, an estate owner who triple-locks his doors at night. The spreadsheets show green across the board, numbers climbing steadily into sustainable territory.
The intake forms now include a section I added myself, questions designed to filter out a specific type of wealth. The kind that buys people. The kind that would have hired me to intimidate their daughter's fake boyfriend.
I never want to work for anyone like Bliss's father again.
The scoop hovers over the coffee grounds when footsteps whisper across the floor behind me.
"You're up early." Bliss's voice carries the soft rasp of interrupted sleep.
I turn my head.
She is leaning against the doorframe, my shirt sliding off one shoulder, her eyes half-closed.
"Habit," I reply. "I did not intend to wake you."
"You didn't." She pads across the kitchen, wrapping her arms around me from behind, pressing her cheek against my back. "I got cold."
Something warm and possessive tightens in me.
I set down the coffee scoop and turn, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter so we are closer to eye level.
