Page 108 of Werewolves and Witches AU

“Aye, let’s get off this roof and go home.” He nods and stifles a yawn, and I smile. Milo shuts down quickly when he’s tired. “Magpie, ye need to stay awake long enough to get to the truck or it’s not going to be a convincing extraction.”

Gently prying him from me, I take his hands in mine. His grey eyes are soft and unfocused.

Sliding my hands inside my jacket that he still wears, I unzip the inside pocket and remove a pair of aluminium tactical cuffs. This’ll wake him up. Mindful of his skin, I click them shut around his wrists.

I watch his face as he processes what I just did. There’s no alarm, nor fear, just plain confusion. He tries to pull his arms wide, but not in any meaningful way. Then a slow smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth.

“You haven’t even taken me to dinner, but you’ve already got me in handcuffs…” he quips.

The thought of Milo in handcuffs in that way is a little too much for me and my wolf when we still haven’t claimed him.

Redirecting the temptation before me, I focus him back on the mission. “Thing is, Magpie, ye broke into a bank…”

His mouth forms an “O” shape, and his eyes dart to the bulkhead that houses the roof access then back to me. “My bag…”

“Yer bag?”

“I have a bag filled with crystals and candles. I think it might be on the next floor down because that’s where Janus—”

My wolf cuts him off with a growl. That man’s name is going to be banned, I think. We’ll go back to calling him Time Guy.

“Okay, we’ll go retrieve yer bag, then I’m going to worry about how to get ye out of the building without charges.”

Milo blanches. “They might charge me?”

“Not on my watch, Pup.” I lace our fingers together and kiss his forehead. “I’ve not had a Dog get imprisoned on a mission yet. Thriller’s come close a couple of times, mind ye.”

The diversion in topic seems to work well enough that when I lead him towards the stairwell access, he comes willingly. When we descend to the top floor, the door is still open, and when we breach, I observe the obliterated ceiling tiles that litter the floor with their debris. My hand on Milo’s tightens.

Two shots were fired at my mate. I leave the casings; incriminating Time Guy in a crime only helps shift focus away from my mate. A mate who, the moment we’re recovered, is taking a course in how to minimise his DNA and biometric trails on a mission.

Milo’s little gasp has my neck snapping in his direction. “My cap…”

“Ye didn’t?” I ask in disbelief.

Tuesday’s distinctive ball cap is half hidden by the divider on the first cubicle. A quick check-in with my wolf confirms we’re alone, and I leave Milo long enough to take the few steps needed to retrieve it. Dusting it off, I chuckle to myself when I read the words “Dibs on the ginger” embroidered on the front. I remember the mission Tuesday bought it on.

Milo has a faint blush on his cheeks. “In my defence, I was in a rush and didn’t actually stop to read what was written on it. I took it from by the door when I put on my boots before I left the Nest.”

I chuckle and tuck it away in my back pocket. “Where do ye think yer bag is?”

He chews his bottom lip while he thinks. “I think maybe over by the balcony. I don’t remember wearing it when I was out there.”

Nodding, I stretch out my hand for him to hold, and again, he gives a level of instant compliance that helps keep my wolf calm. Together, we walk the aisles between the cubicles until we find it, stashed under a desk at the far end.

Hefting it up, I frown. “Please stop carrying around bags of literal bricks.”

Milo snorts, but he also sways in place.

“Come on, Pup. Home.”

His face scrunches up into a ball of disgust, before he whines, “We’re on the twelfth floor. I don’t wanna do all those stairs. I’m tired and I ache and I’ve got sand in places that sand shouldn’t be.”

Chuckling to myself—images of him in the world’s tiniest briefs standing on the beach now at the front of my mind—I approach him slowly and cradle the side of his face in my bigger hand. He leans into my touch, and I offer him a small smile. Then I trail that hand around to the back of his head, down his spine, and drop into a squat. Gripping him tightly at mid-thigh, I hoist him over my shoulder like he’s nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

Milo yelps, then protests, then figures out my intentions and settles. His bound hands once again find a home in the fabric of my T-shirt at my lower back, and together, we descend the concrete stairwell.

“Why’s your butt so firm?” he asks, poking it. “If I weren’t so tired, I’d bite it. Nom nom.”