I remember thinking he was attractive. I remember filing that observation away under "not relevant" because I wasn't in Oakridge to notice attractive men. I remember his name, spoken casually by Mila when she'd recommended the class:Tank.
Tank. His name is Tank. And he's standing in the women's bathroom at a Valentine's mixer looking at me like...
Like I'm something worth looking at.
I turn slowly, abandoning my reflection to face the real thing. Take him in properly now, without the distraction of flying through defense maneuvers or trying to keep my guard up against practice attacks.
He'smassive. That's the first coherent thought I manage. At least 6'4", built like someone sculpted him from granite and then decided to add more granite just to be safe. Broad shoulders that strain against the fabric of his suit jacket. Arms that could probably bench press a small car. Thighs like tree trunks. He's the kind of Alpha who makes other Alphas look like they need to spend more time at the gym.
And yet—despite the intimidating physicality—there's something almost gentle in the way he holds himself. Controlledpower. Restrained strength. Like he knows exactly how much damage he could do and chooses, deliberately, not to.
His attire is all black. Sophisticated but simple—a well-cut suit that doesn't scream designer until you look closely enough to notice the quality of the fabric, the precision of the tailoring, the subtle details that mark it as bespoke rather than off-the-rack. No tie. The top button of his dress shirt is undone, revealing just a hint of collarbone and the edge of what might be a tattoo.
His face is... God, his face. Strong jaw covered in dark stubble that's been carefully maintained rather than neglected. High cheekbones. A nose that might have been broken once or twice but somehow looks better for it. Eyes that are a deep, warm brown—almost black in this lighting—watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
His head is shaved close, the stubble there matching the shadow on his jaw, and it emphasizes the strong lines of his skull, the powerful column of his neck. There's a scar on his temple—small, faded, the kind you get from combat rather than accident—and another one running along his forearm where his sleeve has ridden up slightly.
Military. The details scream military. The posture, the scars, the way he's positioned himself in the doorway like he's assessing for threats even in a bathroom.
But it's his scent that practicallydrownsme.
It hits my senses like a tidal wave—overwhelming, consuming, absolutely devastating in the best possible way. I inhale instinctively, trying to parse the individual notes, trying to make sense of what my body is telling me.
Smoked leather. That's the base—rich and dark and masculine, like a perfectly aged jacket that's been worn through a hundred adventures. Layered over that, the deep green complexity of woods: cedar and sandalwood and something thatmight be vetiver, earthy and grounding. And threading through everything, the warm golden spice of saffron, unexpectedly delicate against all that strength.
There's amber too. Soft and warm and inviting, rounding out the sharper edges of the leather and woods. It's the kind of scent that makes you want to bury your face in someone's neck and just breathe.
It's hard not to purr. Actually physically difficult. My omega is responding to this man in ways I haven't experienced since... ever, actually. I've never felt this instantaneous, this overwhelming, this completely undone by someone's presence alone.
I inhale the full bouquet of his scent—let it fill my lungs, my senses, my entire being—and when I exhale, the breath comes out shaky. Unsteady. Completely betraying the cool composure I've been projecting all evening.
My eyes had fluttered closed at some point—I don't remember deciding to close them, but apparently my body needed a moment to process—and when I open them again, he's closer.
Not close enough to touch. But close enough that his scent is even more intense, even more intoxicating. Close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Close enough that when our gazes lock, something in my chest cracks open like a fissure in ice.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I wonder if I'm tipsy. If somehow, despite limiting myself to two glasses of wine, I've managed to get drunk enough that I'm hallucinating. Or maybe someone spiked my drink—that would explain the way my head is swimming, the way my knees feel slightly weak, the way my whole body is oriented toward this man like a compass finding north.
But no. I'm not drunk. I'm not drugged. I'm just... affected. Completely and utterly affected by a muscle god who seems to have descended from the heavens specifically to destroy every wall I've spent months building.
"Tank," I whisper, and his name feels like a secret on my lips. Like something I shouldn't be saying out loud.
His expression shifts. Recognition flickers in those dark eyes—he knows me too, or at least he remembers me from the self-defense class. But there's something else there. Something hungry. Something that has absolutely nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way his gaze tracks down my body and back up again, lingering on the exposed skin of my back, the curve of my neck, the rise and fall of my chest as I struggle to breathe normally.
He looks at me like he wants to devour me. And God help me, I think I want to let him.
"Are you good with acting?" he asks.
His voice is deep. Deeper than I remember from the class, rougher around the edges, like he's been running or fighting or doing something that's left him slightly breathless. The question makes no sense and perfect sense all at once—I don't know what he's planning, but something in my gut tells me to trust him. To go along with whatever game he's about to play.
This is probably a terrible idea. This is probably the worst decision I've made all week, and I've made some spectacularly bad decisions.
Do it anyway.
A smirk tugs at my lips—real this time, not the practiced indifference I've been wielding like a weapon all evening. "Try me."
