"Well, Mr. Military Bodyguard over here definitely has those qualifications," he says, gesturing at Tank with his fork. "Comes with the territory."
I blink, processing this new information. "Oh. You weren't just a normal bodyguard? You were military?"
Tank shrugs one massive shoulder, like his entire career history is barely worth mentioning. "Something like that."
I think about that for a moment—about the way he moved at the mixer, fluid and controlled. The way he assessed threats before they materialized. The way his body is covered in sacred tattoos that speak of discipline and ritual and something deeper than civilian life. The way he handled those bounty hunters without breaking a sweat, like danger was just another day at the office.
This man is not just "something like" a military bodyguard. He's something far more dangerous and far more interesting than he's letting on.
"Wait," I say, a new thought occurring. "You're actually a bodyguard? Like, professionally? That's your job?"
Tank's smirk widens, and he shoots a look at Julian that's loaded with meaning I can't interpret. "Something like that."
Julian doesn't even look up from his food. "Don't."
"Don't what?" Tank asks, all innocence.
"Whatever you're thinking about saying. Don't."
I arch an eyebrow, looking between them. There's clearly a whole conversation happening in subtext that I'm not privy to, a history that explains the loaded glances and half-finished sentences.
Elias leans over toward me, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that's definitely loud enough for both other Alphas to hear.
"Ignore those two. Sometimes they have a language of their own. I'm not part of the loop, though." He grins, his hazel-green eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'm the youngest, so I think I need to join the thirty-year-old club before they let me in on the secret handshake."
The youngest. The firefighter. The one who I made a latte art of Sasha wearing a fire helmet that made him cry over coffee that reminded him of his grandmother. He seems lighter than the other two—more playful, more open. But there's something in his eyes that tells me he's seen things too. That he's not as carefree as he pretends to be.
I laugh, genuine and surprised. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-nine. Tank's thirty-two, and Julian's the ancient one at thirty-five."
"Ancient," Julian mutters, still not looking up. "I'm going to remember that when you want something from me."
"You love me," Elias says cheerfully.
"That's debatable."
I smile, something warm unfurling in my chest despite my best efforts to stay detached. "Maybe we should start with proper introductions? I feel like that would be good, given that I just... you know..." I gesture vaguely, unable to find the right words to offer to pretend to be your Omega for six weeks.
And also slept with one of you. And made breakfast for all of you. And apparently got emotionally attached to your dog in the span of twelve hours.
Julian finally looks up, those green eyes pinning me in place. "Why are you even here?" His voice is flat, direct, cutting straight to the point without any of the warmth his packmates have shown. "Are you the new cook or something?"
Ouch. That stings more than it should, coming from a man who gave me iron gummies and noticed I was spiraling before I did.
Elias rolls his eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck. "Julian, you need better communication skills."
"I can communicate just fine."
"No, you sound like a douche every day of the damn week."
"I don't?—"
"Some dudes were targeting her at the Valentine's meet and greet last night."
Tank's voice cuts through their bickering, low and steady. He doesn't raise his volume—he doesn't need to. Both Alphas fall silent immediately, their attention snapping to him like soldiers responding to a commanding officer.
His dark eyes are still locked on mine as he continues. "You know that mandatory government shit they make us do. Well, some bounty hunters showed up looking for her. So I played bodyguard."
