And I didn't want to stop it. That's the terrifying part. At any point during this journey, I could have asked him to pull over. Could have demanded answers. Could have had a sensible adult conversation about boundaries and expectations and the fact that we're basically strangers.
But I didn't. Because something about being with him felt... right.
The best part—or maybe the strangest part—is that neither of us has spoken a word since leaving the mixer. The entire car ride passed in complete silence, just the purr of the engine and the whisper of tires on asphalt and the occasional glance exchanged across the center console.
His Camaro was immaculate—all black leather and chrome accents and that particular scent of expensive vehicle mixed with his own devastating fragrance. The seats had heated automatically when we got in, warming away the January chill that had settled into my bones during the walk to the parking lot. He'd opened the door and set me in the passenger seat, closed it carefully, walked around to the driver's side with the kind of controlled grace that made me hyperaware of every movement.
The car suited him. Powerful, sleek, expensive without being ostentatious. The engine had rumbled to life like a purr, and when he pulled out of the parking lot, his hand had brushed my knee briefly—an accident, probably, but one that sent sparks shooting up my thigh.
Which should be awkward as fuck. In any normal situation, this level of silence would be uncomfortable. Tension-filled. The kind of quiet that makes you desperate to fill it with meaningless chatter just to break the weight of it.
But between us? The silence was—dare I admit—comforting. No pressure to speak or formally introduce ourselves. No expectation of small talk or explanation. Just two people existing in the same space, breathing the same air, heading toward the same destination without needing to justify it.
It reminded me of those moments in the self-defense class—when he'd corrected my stance without explaining why, and I'd adjusted without questioning. A communication that existed beneath words. An understanding that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
He knows my last name. That much is clear from the way he saidMiss Carlislein the bathroom, like he'd been waiting to use it. Why he knows it—how he knows it—that's a discovery I can wait for until morning. Right now, I'm running on adrenaline and attraction and the kind of reckless energy that only emergeswhen you've narrowly escaped danger and your body decides the appropriate response isarousal.
All I know about him is that his name is Tank—which I can only assume is a nickname, because no parent in their right mind names their child after a military vehicle—and that he kissed me like he meant it. Like he'd been thinking about doing it all night. Like he wanted to memorize the shape of my mouth for future reference.
My lips are still tingling from that kiss. That passionate, devastating, toe-curling kiss that short-circuited every logical thought I've ever had. I can only imagine what that mouth of his could do in... other places.
Just thinking about it makes the growing pool of slick between my legs gush further, warmth spreading through my core in a way that's both embarrassing and impossible to control. I'm only thankful I wore those scent-protecting thongs tonight—the expensive ones that actually work—or his entire car would have reeked of my arousal by the time we pulled into this ridiculously fancy neighborhood.
That would have been mortifying. Although, based on the way his nostrils flared a few times during the drive, I'm not entirely sure the thongs are doing their job as well as advertised.
I watch as Tank approaches the front door—a sleek black surface that looks more like modern art than a security feature—and presses his finger against a panel embedded in the frame. A soft beep, a click of unlocking mechanisms, and then a feminine automated voice fills the air.
"Welcome home, Terrance Volkov."
I arch an eyebrow, filing away the information.Terrance Volkov. So that's the name behind the nickname. Russian, if I had to guess, based on the surname. Definitely explains the cheekbones.
How does one go from Terrance to Tank, exactly? Is it the muscles? The general vibe of being an unstoppable force? The fact that he's approximately the size of an actual armored vehicle?
He opens the door and gestures me inside with a sweep of his arm—old-fashioned chivalry that somehow doesn't feel performative coming from him. I step over the threshold, and?—
My eyes go wide.
This man's house is not just impressive. It'simmaculate. Organized in a way that borders on obsessive, every surface clean, every item in its designated place. But it's not sterile—that's what catches me off guard. It's not the cold, minimalist bachelor pad I might have expected from an Alpha of his size and demeanor.
It'spersonalized. Warm. Lived-in despite its precision.
The architecture is all clean lines and modern angles—open concept living that flows from the entrance into a spacious great room. The color scheme is predominantly black and white, sleek and sophisticated, but it's softened by the dark wood finishes that run throughout the space. Walnut floors that gleam in the ambient lighting. Exposed wooden beams across the ceiling. A massive bookshelf made from reclaimed timber that holds not just books but photographs, small sculptures, pieces of art that look collected rather than purchased for decoration.
There's a fireplace on the far wall—gas, modern, with a sleek black mantel and flames that flicker behind tempered glass. Above it hangs what looks like an original oil painting: a winter landscape, all snow and shadows and bare trees reaching toward a gray sky. The furniture is oversized leather in deep espresso, clearly chosen for comfort rather than style, the kind of couches you could sink into and never want to leave.
A throw blanket is draped over the back of one sofa. There's a coffee mug on the end table—forgotten, probably from thismorning. A pair of reading glasses folded next to it. Little signs of life that make the whole space feel real in a way that most wealthy Alpha homes don't.
This is rare. In my experience, most Alphas—especially wealthy ones—live in spaces that feel like showrooms. Everything chosen for status, for impression, for the message it sends to visitors. Cold leather furniture that's never been sat on. Art selected by interior designers. Surfaces so polished you can see your reflection.
My parents' house was like that. Everything for show. Nothing for comfort. The furniture in the formal living room wasn't meant to be used—it was meant to impress guests with its expense. I wasn't even allowed in certain rooms for fear I'd disturb the careful arrangements.
This house feels like someone actually lives here. Like someone thought about what they wanted and created it, rather than hiring someone to create it for them.
The scent hits me next—a thick blanket of aroma that wraps around me like a physical embrace. Smoked leather and woods and saffron, the same devastating combination I detected in the bathroom, but amplified here. Saturated into every surface. This is his territory, and every molecule of air proclaims it.
I'm inhaling deeply, letting his scent fill my lungs, when I catch movement in my peripheral vision.
Something isblazingtoward me.
