Just the idea of this woman—this gorgeous, infuriating, perfect woman—knowing how to handle a firearm is making me hard as fuck.
Odd turn-ons you have there, Terrance.
But also completely understandable, given that every Alpha instinct I have is screaming that this is someone who could stand beside me. Who wouldn't need to be protected so muchas partnered with. Who could hold her own in the kind of dangerous situations my pack occasionally finds ourselves in.
She leans back, pulling away from my shoulder to meet my eyes. Her expression is a masterwork of seductive innocence—doe eyes wide, lips curved into a pout that makes me want to kiss her all over again.
"Why don't we take this to your place?" she offers, and her voice is honey and sin and promises I desperately want her to keep. "No interruptions."
Behind me, I hear the two Alphas shuffling backward. Retreating. One of them mutters something about this not being worth the trouble, the other making excuses about having the wrong information. The omega's performance—if that's what it was—has clearly convinced them that she's not the easy target they anticipated. That she came with protection, with preparation, with a blade strapped to her thigh and a willingness to use it.
Smart. She's so fucking smart. Turned what could have been a dangerous situation into a display of power that sent her would-be captors running. Used me as a prop without hesitation, read the room perfectly, improvised a cover story that was just believable enough to create doubt.
I need to tell Julian about this. About her. About everything.
But first, I need to get her somewhere safe. And if 'somewhere safe' happens to be my place, where Elias is probably passed out on the couch and Julian is probably working late and this omega can be protected by an entire pack instead of just one Alpha... well. That's just good strategy.
The bathroom door closes behind them. We're alone again.
She's still wrapped around me like a koala, still looking at me with those hazel eyes that see far too much, still smelling like cinnamon and cherries and everything I've ever wanted.
"So," she says, and there's a hint of uncertainty beneath the bravado now. A question in her voice that wasn't there when she was performing for our audience. "Your place?"
She doesn't need to ask twice.
"I'm all yours, Miss Carlisle."
The name slips out before I can stop it—information Julian included in his briefing, though he didn't explain how he knew it or why it mattered. Carlisle. A name that means something in certain circles, that carries weight and history and probably a whole mess of complications I'm about to walk directly into.
Her eyes widen slightly at the recognition, but she doesn't pull away. Doesn't demand to know how I know her name. Doesn't freeze up or go defensive or do any of the things I might expect from someone who's clearly running from something.
Instead, something in her expression softens. Like she's finally decided to trust me. Like she's finally letting down the walls she's been maintaining all evening. Like maybe—just maybe—she's as tired of being alone as the rest of us.
I should call Julian. I should tell him what's happening. I should be professional about this—bodyguard first, interested Alpha second.
But looking into those hazel eyes, feeling her weight in my arms, breathing in that devastating scent... I find I don't want to be professional. I want to be hers.
And I dare to admit... I mean it.
CHAPTER 7
Malamutes And Midnight Negotiations
~ROSEMARIE~
How did I end up on the doorstep of a random Alpha's house after a failed Valentine's mixer, one might ask?
Excellent question. The answer involves a combination of questionable decision-making, survival instincts, and the fact that I apparently have zero self-control when it comes to men who kiss like they've been studying for a PhD in Oral Devastation.
In my defense, he started it.
Being confident before an audience to escape a potential kidnapping situation is, as it turns out, the best way to navigate crazy scenarios like the one I just survived. Those two men in the bathroom had bad intentions written all over them—you didn't need to be psychic to feel it. The moment the door opened and their scents hit me—sour with adrenaline, sharp with predatory focus—every instinct I have screameddanger.
Whether you believe in instincts or not, I'm someone who never ignores them. They've kept me alive this long. They're the reason I left Chicago before my family could complete their little arranged marriage scheme. They're the reason I had a knife strapped to my thigh tonight instead of trusting in the "safety" of a community event.
And they're the reason I'm currently standing in a gated community, staring at a two-story penthouse that costs more than I'll probably earn in a decade, next to an Alpha whose real name I haven’t learned.
How that led to me allowing this massive, devastatingly sexy man to carry me—effortlessly, like I weighed nothing—from the bathroom to his sleek black Camaro is honestly beyond my comprehension. Everything moved on autopilot after we escaped the mixer. My brain checked out somewhere around the parking lot and left my body to make all the executive decisions, which is how I ended up in the passenger seat of a car that probably costs more than my student loans, being driven to a neighborhood where the houses have names instead of numbers.
