Chapter 7 Malamutes And Midnight Negotiations #2
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 my God!" I manage between attacks, laughing despite myself because this is ridiculous.
This is absolutely ridiculous. I haven't seen a dog in ages—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 is massive. 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 his elbow.
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 as adoration.
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—actually giggling, 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—"
"You're still on the floor," he points out, already carrying me across the open space toward what appears to be a gourmet kitchen. "And your dress is too nice to be sitting in dog hair."
He has a point. The D&G did not come cheap, and I'd rather not spend the rest of the evening picking Malamute fur off the lace.
He deposits me on one of the high-backed stools at the kitchen island—a gorgeous slab of black marble veined with gold that probably cost more than my annual salary.
The kitchen itself is state-of-the-art: professional-grade appliances, copper pots hanging from a rack above the center island, a wine fridge built into the cabinetry.
It smells faintly of spices and coffee, layered beneath his ever-present scent.
Someone here actually cooks. That's... unexpectedly attractive.
"Let me get you a cleaning cloth for your face," Tank says, already moving toward a drawer.
"No, you don't need to—" I start, then pause, realizing what I'm about to say. The words come out anyway, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter has officially clocked out for the evening. "I mean, I'll get sweaty anyway."
The moment the sentence leaves my lips, heat floods my cheeks. I can feel the blush spreading down my neck, probably reaching my chest, because I am an adult woman who just implied that I'm planning to engage in sweaty activities with a man I met approximately two hours ago.
Tank goes very still. His back is to me, one hand frozen on the drawer handle, and I can see the muscles of his shoulders tense beneath his suit jacket.
Great. Excellent. Wonderful. Way to play it cool, Rosemarie. Really nailed the sophisticated seductress vibe there.
I huff out a breath, squaring my shoulders. "Well. If that's what we're doing." A pause. "Even if we're not doing anything... frisky... I truly do love dogs, so please don't think I need to be 'cleansed' or anything. I'm not high-maintenance about pet interactions."
Why am I still talking? Someone please make me stop talking.
Tank turns to face me, and there's something in his expression that I can't quite read. Relief, maybe. But beneath that, something deeper. Something that looks almost like hope.
"You like dogs," he says, and it's not a question.
"I love dogs," I correct. "Haven't been able to have one in... a long time. But yes. Big fan. Would definitely let your giant fluffball tackle me again if that's what makes him happy."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Not one omega has ever liked my dog."
He says it like a joke—light, casual, throwaway—but I catch the hurt buried in the depths of those words.
The history behind them. How many omegas has he brought home, only to have them reject Sasha?
How many potential connections have ended because his dog was "too big" or "too much" or "too something"?
I think about the omegas who must have wrinkled their noses at the fur on the furniture.
Who complained about the size or the slobber or the sheer presence of an animal that takes up as much space as a small couch.
Who saw Sasha as an obstacle between them and this Alpha rather than a part of the package deal.
I think about how lonely that must have been. Finding connections that fell apart the moment someone met your best friend. Learning to brace yourself for rejection before it even happens.
Their loss. Anyone who can't appreciate a giant cuddly fluffball is clearly not worth keeping.
"Well," I say, meeting his eyes. "Today's your lucky day."
Something shifts in his expression. Warms. The tension in his shoulders loosens, and when he takes a step toward me—then another—there's a new energy in the air. Something that crackles between us like electricity before a storm.
"Maybe it is," he murmurs, closing the distance until he's standing directly in front of me.
Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
Close enough that his scent wraps around me, overwhelming and intoxicating.
Close enough that when he leans in, his lips brush the shell of my ear.
"You don't need to fuck me if you don't want to, Sweet Valentine."
His voice is low. Rough. The kind of sound that vibrates through my chest and settles somewhere much lower. But there's sincerity in it too—genuine concern that I feel pressured, that I'm here out of obligation rather than desire.
Sweet Valentine. That's... actually adorable. In a gruff, military-man kind of way.
I smile, feeling my nervousness dissolve into something more playful. More me. "Oh, I'm your 'Sweet Valentine' now, huh?"
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and there it is—the ghost of a real smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That would be the best way to describe it. Since I somehow brought an omega home from a Valentine's mixer."
I giggle—actually giggle again, which is embarrassing but apparently unavoidable around this man. "Don't you think it's a bit early for Valentine's talk? It's the first week of January."
"The moment the stores start putting the chocolates out," he says, his voice dropping into something warm and almost teasing, "I'm all game in the realms of love."
Oh. Oh, he's smooth. Smoother than I expected from someone who looks like he could bench-press a small vehicle and responds to the name "Tank."
The contradiction is fascinating. This massive, intimidating Alpha who speaks Russian to his dog and lives in a house full of personal touches and talks about being "all game in the realms of love" like it's a normal thing to say.
He's full of surprises, and I'm finding that I want to unwrap every single one.
"Smooth talker," I accuse, though there's no heat in it. "But where's all the sugar, then? The chocolates? The flowers? If we're playing Valentine's games, I expect proper effort."
He chuckles—an actual laugh, low and rumbling and absolutely devastating to my composure. "You want me to woo you properly? Court you with candy hearts and roses?"
"I'm saying if you're going to call me your Valentine, you should be prepared to back it up." I raise an eyebrow challengingly. "Otherwise it's just empty words."
His eyes darken—just a shade, just enough to notice. "Well. Not everyone is turned on by muscled thickness. Figured I should check before making assumptions."
Something bold rises in my chest. The same energy that made me climb him like a tree in the bathroom.
The confidence that only emerges when I'm in my element—when I'm creating drinks or doing something I'm passionate about or, apparently, when I'm sitting in a gorgeous kitchen being flirted with by an Alpha who looks at me like I'm the most fascinating thing he's ever encountered.
"And why wouldn't I be?" I hear myself say. "If I can climb the trunk of a man, I can most definitely ride him the way I want to."
The words hang in the air between us. Bold. Shameless. Completely unlike the reserved omega I usually project to the world.
Tank's eyes go dark. Not dangerous-dark. Hungry-dark. The kind of look that makes you very aware of exactly how much power is contained in the body standing before you, and exactly what that power could do if properly directed.
"Don't tempt me, Sweetness," he growls—actually growls, the sound rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. "Don't tempt me with a good fucking time."
Oh, this is fun. This is really, really fun. I could get used to this—the banter, the push and pull, the way he responds to my boldness with heat instead of shock.
I lean forward, closing the remaining distance between us until my lips are almost—almost—touching his. I can feel his breath on my mouth. Can smell the whiskey and chocolate he must have had earlier, layered beneath that devastating scent that makes my omega want to purr.
"I can tempt you with a good fucking night," I whisper. "Only if you let me be on top."
For a moment, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just stares at me with those dark eyes, something shifting behind them—calculation, maybe. Desire, definitely. And beneath it all, a softening that makes my heart do something complicated in my chest.
I wonder if he expected this. If he thought the omega he was assigned to protect would end up in his kitchen, demanding to be on top. If any of this was part of whatever plan brought him to the mixer in the first place.
And I wonder if I care. Right now, with his scent surrounding me and his eyes locked on mine and the promise of something incredible hanging in the air between us... I don't think I do.
Then he grins. Actually grins—full and genuine, showing white teeth and transforming his severe features into something almost boyish. His eyes warm, losing some of their intensity, and when he speaks, his voice is softer. Reverent, almost. Like he's answering a prayer.
"Deal, Sweetness."