Page 25 of Werewolves and Witches AU

“There’s obviously been a mix up. I needed help from the Witches Council, and they sent me here, but I didn’t know it was… That it belonged to you. And it’s clearly the wrong place for me.”

The ginger alpha in front of me folds his arms across his ample chest, and only now do I notice the paper bag he clutches. It’s stamped with a French-style patisserie logo, and saturated with grease from whatever baked goods he’s purchased.

Oh, hey, I picked up a coupon for that same deli just yesterday. Maybe I should offer it to him as a kind of weird apology for disturbing their pack this morning. No sooner do I pat my jacket pockets searching for it, than two more alpha werewolves appear from beyond each of the adjoining neighbours’ hedges.

My gaze bounces between them until a strange grating sound from behind me pulls my attention. When I turn, another much smaller man slides off the garage roof and lands on the floor in a near-silent crouch. His hard stare is the most savage of them all despite the fact that his stature clearly marks him as an omega werewolf.

He up-nods me, as if I’m a friend, but absolutely nothing about him suggests he’s friendly. In fact, he has a look in his eye that not only makes me think he can read my mind, but that he’d love for me to make that observation about his designation out loud.

I can be a lot, sometimes; my ex would always say that about me. I can also be chaotic and impulsive, but I don’t have a death wish.

The rugged Scotsman clears his throat, and despite the obvious threat emanating from the diminutive werewolf, I turn my back on him. The ginger alpha doesn’t like that I’m giving my attention to anyone who isn’t him. Or, more likely, he’s waiting for an answer to his question that I still haven’t provided. But now I can’t remember what he asked me.

I open my mouth, to once again apologise and make up some excuse to leave, but instead of words, a long and loud gurgling noise escapes my stomach. I slam my lips shut, gripping the bottom one between my teeth. But the damage is done.

Heat rises from my ravenous tummy up my neck and over my cheeks, as if it can chase the embarrassment right out of my body. But if the burp didn’t do that, turning bright red in front of a pack of werewolves definitely won’t.

I fix my gaze upon the bakery bag, because there’s no way I can make eye contact with any of them now.

“Sounds to me like yer in exactly the right place.”

In spite of myself, and as if magnetised, my eyes trail up until they meet the Scottish alpha’s. He isn’t looking at me, though, and when he nods at someone over my shoulder, the house door opens with a soft click.

Only then do his hazel eyes land back on me, and before I can protest, he takes a step closer.

I back up.

He takes another, and I back up again.

The corner of his lip quirks into a smile, and that deep brogue sweeps over me like a wave when he announces, “I was just on my way to the kitchen. What do ye say to staying for some breakfast, and ye can tell me all about why it is ye need a safe place?”

11

Take A Seat, Pup

Milo

The inside of their house is as spartan and void of life as the outside. There are no paintings or artworks on the walls, which are all varying shades of white and cream. Undoubtedly, the staircase straight ahead leads to the upper floor, and the closed door beside it probably to the basement. Gory images from that serial killer TV show—the one who likes the Saran wrap—swirl through my mind. Are they going to bundle me up and keep me down there?

I cut my eyes left, then right, but I’m entirely surrounded by werewolves. Before I can run for it, they funnel me into a spacious living room where a small breakfast table is set in front of the window, and a luxurious leather sofa set that seats six fills the rest of the space.

From behind, the burly Scot drops a large hand onto my shoulder and steers me to the centre of the sofa. “Take a seat, Pup.”

The leather-on-leather combo of my jacket against the cushions is loud, and it squeaks out my agitation for everyone to hear as I twist and turn to track each man as they move around the room.

“Change of outfit, Guardian?” asks one of the two men who’d arrived later. He speaks just like Dick Van Dyke did in Mary Poppins, and it takes every bit of willpower I have not to blurt out, “Chim chim cher-ee.”

Nerves. It’s nerves. I suck my lower lip between my teeth and chew it.

“Wouldn’t help us maintain a low profile if there were reports of a man matching my description—bleeding heavily from a wound in his arm—circulating through the neighbourhood, would it?” Guardian responds, squeezing to stand behind a sofa chair.

“Smart to go for compression wear. Have ye healed yet, or do ye need me to look at it?” When he asks, the red-headed alpha’s eyes glow more amber and turn more almond-shaped. I know werewolves can switch their forms, of course, but knowing it and seeing it are two different experiences.

It’s not just the striking change in his features that captures my interest. Witches don’t receive formal schooling on other supernaturals, as I’m sure they don’t teach about us, but I do know about the importance of pack to a werewolf. How packs are like our covens—family—and the promotion of their well-being and strength is a point of pride for the… “You’re the pack alpha!”

Those golden eyes dart my way, scanning me with a primal intensity, before returning to their more human state. “Aye, and ye can call me Ranger.”

I smile at that. It’s a good name—suits him. The ease with which they’ve given their names helps me relax. Despite being unorthodox, the Witches Council sent me here to be safe, and really, where’s safer than in the middle of a werewolf pack?