But not toward the cardio equipment. Not back to my carefully scheduled routine.
My hand is pulling my phone from my bag before I've consciously decided to do anything. My fingers are dialing the only number I need before I've talked myself out of it.
It rings twice before he picks up.
"What."
Tank's voice is gravel and irritation, the vocal equivalent of a man who hasn't slept nearly enough and is being reminded of that fact by an early morning phone call. No greeting. Nopleasantries. Just a single syllable that communicates an entire mood.
I roll my eyes, even though he can't see it. "You really need to work on your manners and not be a grumpy ass in the morning just because you didn't fucking sleep."
"Says the one who's grumpy all the fucking time," Tank fires back. I can hear him shifting, probably sitting up in bed, probably rubbing a hand over his face. "What do you want, Julian? It's five in the morning."
"It's after five," I correct, because precision matters. "And being grumpy is my job, obviously. Someone in this pack needs to have standards."
"Right. Standards." There's a yawn in his voice, but also a thread of alertness—Tank's military training means he's never fully unconscious, never truly off-guard. "Get to the point. You don't call this early unless something's actually wrong."
He knows me too well. Which is inconvenient when I'm trying to pretend this is casual.
I lean against the wall of the gym corridor, watching the door to the weight room where those two Alphas disappeared. Thinking about hazel eyes and butterfly tattoos and a scent that's still clinging to my senses despite my best efforts to ignore it.
The gym is quiet now—too quiet. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that flat, institutional glow that makes even healthy people look slightly unwell. Somewhere in the distance, a machine beeps. Water drips from a leaky faucet in the locker room, each drop echoing in the silence like a countdown to something I can't name.
She's probably gone by now. Walked out of here without a backward glance, clutching those gummies I gave her like a strange souvenir from a stranger encounter.
Good. That's good. She should be gone. She should be far away from this gym and those Alphas and whatever mess is chasing her through small towns and early morning workouts.
"Julian." Tank's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, sharper now, more alert. "You still there? What's going on?"
I exhale slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. The headache building behind my eyes has nothing to do with lack of sleep and everything to do with the impossible situation I'm about to create for myself.
This is a terrible idea. You don't even know her name.
You don't know anything about her except that she smells like everything you've ever wanted and she's being hunted by people who mean her harm.
That should be enough. That should be more than enough.
Tank is waiting on the other end of the line, patience wearing thin if I know him—and I do. We've been pack for fifteen years now, ever since Elias introduced us at some charity event that neither of us wanted to attend. Tank had been fresh out of the military then, all coiled tension and barely contained violence, and I'd recognized something in him that I saw in myself: the desperate need for control in a world that offered none.
Elias is the glue that holds us together—the easy laughter to our rigid silence, the spontaneity to our structure. Without him, Tank and I would probably just glare at each other across boardroom tables and call it bonding. With him, we're something that almost resembles a family.
A family that's missing someone. That's been missing someone for as long as we've existed.
An omega. Our omega. The piece that would make us complete.
I think about the woman in the gym—her defiant piercings, her survivor's tattoos, the way she'd snapped at me with that fire in her eyes even when she was clearly falling apart inside. She'dbeen standing on the edge of a panic attack and still found the energy to be sarcastic.
That's not weakness. That's armor.
"What are the chances," I hear myself say, and my voice is carefully neutral, betraying nothing of the chaos currently rearranging my carefully organized thoughts, "you'll bodyguard an omega for me?"
CHAPTER 4
Knives And Cocktail Dresses
~ROSEMARIE~
My apartment looks like a hurricane made sweet, passionate love to a storage unit, and the resulting offspring decided to take up permanent residence in my living space.
