Somethinghuge.
"Sasha—" Tank starts, but it's already too late.
I'm tackled by what I can only describe as the biggest wolf I've ever witnessed in my entire life. A mountain of fur and muscle that hits me square in the chest and sends me sprawling backward with an undignified "EEP!" that I will deny making until my dying day.
I hit the ground—thankfully the floor is hardwood and not marble, so my tailbone survives—and then I'm being assaulted. Licked without mercy. A massive wet tongue covering every inch of my face while an enormous body wriggles with joy on top of me.
"Oh myGod!" I manage between attacks, laughing despite myself because this is ridiculous. This is absolutely ridiculous. I haven't seen a dog inages—my ex-pack didn't allow pets, because why would they when everything in my life was carefully controlled—and now I'm being enthusiastically mauled by what might actually be a wolf.
Please be a dog. Please be a domesticated animal and not an actual wolf that's about to eat me alive. That would be a really anticlimactic end to an otherwise interesting evening.
Tank barks something harsh—a command in Russian that sounds appropriately authoritative—and the wolf-dog-beast immediately whimpers and sits back. Just like that. Instant obedience, like a switch was flipped.
Russian commands. Fingerprint locks. A house that looks like it belongs in an architecture magazine. A nickname like "Tank."
Who is this man?
I push myself up onto my elbows, dog slobber cooling on my cheeks, and get my first proper look at my attacker.
My jaw drops.
This dog ismassive. I don't mean big-for-a-dog massive. I mean small-horse massive. Tank is already bulky and tall for an Alpha—easily 6'4" of pure muscle—and yet when this animal sits upright, its head reaches hiselbow. Its paws are the size of dinner plates. Its fur is a gorgeous mixture of silver and black and white, thick and plush, clearly designed for temperatures far colder than anything we experience in this part of the country.
It's panting happily, tongue lolling out of its mouth, tail wagging in massive sweeps that threaten to knock over a nearby floor lamp. Its eyes are bright amber, intelligent, locked on me with what I can only describe asadoration.
Okay. I take back my earlier concerns about being eaten. This is clearly not a predator. This is an oversized puppy in a wolf's body.
"I'm so sorry," Tank says, and there's genuine embarrassment in his voice.. "He's not usually interested in anyone. Having him race over and lick your face is... actually a really good sign."
I laugh, wiping dog slobber from my chin. "I love dogs. Haven't been around one in forever." I eye the beast, who's still staring at me like I'm the most fascinating thing he's ever encountered. "But is he actually a dog, or is he a wolf? Because I need to know what I'm working with here."
I used to dream about having a dog. When I thought I'd finally have a pack of my own—when I was still naive enough to believe that Damien and his partners would be good to me—I'd imagined coming home to a furry companion. Something to curl up with on the couch. Something that loved unconditionally, without agenda or expectation.
But that was just one more "no" in my former life. No pets allowed. No decisions of my own. No autonomy over any aspect of my existence. They wanted me docile and compliant, not distracted by animals that might give me the affection they certainly weren't going to provide.
Tank's lips twitch—almost a smile, which seems to be as close as he gets to outright grinning. "He's an Alaskan Malamute. Not a wolf, despite appearances."
Alaskan Malamute. That explains the size, the fur, the general "I could pull a sled across the tundra" energy.
"He was the last of his litter," Tank continues, reaching down to give the dog a perfunctory scratch behind the ears. "Breeder said he'd probably be the smallest. Runt of the group. Clearly..." He gestures at the massive animal. "That assessment was incorrect."
The runt who became the biggest. There's something poetic about that. Something I relate to more than I should.
The dog—Sasha, if I caught the name correctly—pants happily, gazing up at Tank with obvious worship before swinging his attention back to me. His tail is still wagging, creating a wind current strong enough to ruffle my dress.
"Sasha," I repeat, testing the name. "That's Russian, right? Like your commands."
Tank nods. "He responds better to Russian. Always has. Don't know why—I didn't train him that way initially." A pause. "My grandmother spoke Russian to me when I was young. Maybe he picked it up from there."
There's history there. Family. Roots that go deeper than the carefully neutral facade he projects. I file that information away for later, adding it to the growing collection of things I'm learning about this man.
Tank rolls his eyes—an expression that somehow looks fond despite its exasperation—and gives Sasha another pat. "Shoo. I have to try and impress my guest now, and you're ruining the mood."
Sasha barks once—a deep, resonant sound that probably echoes through the entire neighborhood—and hauls himself to his feet. He takes a moment to nuzzle against me, pressing his enormous head into my hip with surprising gentleness, before trotting off toward what looks like a dog bed the size of a twin mattress in the corner of the living room.
I'm giggling—actuallygiggling, like a teenager—when Tank crouches down and scoops me up again. I yelp in surprise,grabbing onto his shoulders for balance as he straightens like I weigh nothing at all.
"What are you?—"
