"Shut up," Tank says without heat, but there's a hint of color on his cheekbones that I've never seen before. The big, scary, ex-military bodyguard isblushing. Because of me. Because I affect him enough that he can't control his body's response.
I should not find that as gratifying as I do.
Movement near the door catches my eye—the gym manager, a stern-looking Beta woman with a clipboard, is approaching the glass wall. She pauses to look at us, her expression clearly indicating that she's Seen Some Shit in her career but we're pushing the boundaries even by her standards. Then she rolls her eyes, turns on her heel, and walks away.
"Pretty sure that was a warning," Elias observes.
"Pretty sure I don't care," Tank responds, but he shifts beneath me in a way that suggests he's regaining control of the situation. After another moment, his grip on my hips loosens. "Okay. I think I can stand up without embarrassing myself now."
"So generous of you," I tease, climbing off his lap with only a small amount of reluctance. The loss of his warmth is immediate and unwelcome, but the promise of what's to come makes it bearable.
He stands, stretching muscles that ripple distractingly, and reaches for the towel he'd draped over a nearby weight rack. "By the way," he says, wiping down his chest with deliberate slowness that I'm pretty sure is designed to torment me, "I'd love to feel these new nails you got."
I hold up my hands, wiggling my sparkly pink fingers. "They're very pretty. And very sharp."
"Sharp?" His smirk is pure sin. "How sharp?"
I step closer, pressing myself against his side and tilting my head up to meet his eyes. "Sharp enough to leave marks onthat broad, muscled back of yours. If you're interested in testing them out."
His eyes darken. "Try me."
"Okay, we aredefinitelyleaving now," Elias announces, grabbing both our arms and steering us toward the door. "Before we get permanently banned and have to find a new gym."
We make our way through the main floor, and I can feel every eye in the place tracking our movement. Tank walks on one side of me, Elias on the other, both of them radiating the kind of possessive energy that tells everyone watching exactly who I belong to. I should probably feel self-conscious. Instead, I just feel... safe. Wanted. Claimed in the best possible way.
The cold February air hits us as we step outside, a sharp contrast to the heated atmosphere of the gym. Tank's truck is parked nearby—a massive black beast of a vehicle that looks like it could survive an apocalypse and still have fuel to spare.
"So," I say as we approach it, my voice carefully innocent, "after someone fully calms down, we can have fun in the truck?"
Tank shoots me a look that promises retribution. Elias just laughs.
"We can do whatever you want," they both say, almost in unison.
Temptation in the midst of my hot muscled Alphas.
CHAPTER 35
Grapes, Glamour, And Grumpy Alphas
~ROSEMARIE~
Julian North is in a mood.
Not the regular kind of mood—the quiet, contemplative broodiness that he wears like a second skin most days.
No, this is something sharper. Something that's making every single person on set walk on eggshells and speak in hushed, nervous tones. Something that has the makeup artists exchanging worried glances and the lighting technicians triple-checking their equipment because nobody wants to be the one who sets him off.
My Alpha is being difficult, and I'm genuinely entertained by it.
The D&G photoshoot is taking place in a converted warehouse on the outskirts of the city, a massive space that's been transformed into something straight out of a fashion magazine fever dream.
Exposed brick walls contrast with sleek, modern lighting rigs. Enormous windows let in streams of natural light that the photography team is manipulating with reflective screens anddiffusers. The set itself is a masterpiece of controlled chaos—carefully arranged props, meticulously placed fabric swatches, a backdrop that probably cost more than my apartment's annual rent.
The air smells like hairspray and expensive cologne and the particular brand of stress that only high-stakes creative productions can generate.
Assistants rush back and forth with garment bags and coffee cups. Stylists debate over accessory choices with the intensity of generals planning a military campaign. And in the center of it all, positioned under a battery of professional lights, Julian stands like a statue of barely contained irritation.
"Can we try the jacket with the collar up?" The photographer—a wiry Beta named Marcus who's clearly regretting every life choice that led him to this moment—approaches Julian with the caution of someone approaching a wild animal. "It would create a nice silhouette with the?—"
