Page 26 of Werewolves and Witches AU

Finally settling on the idea that this will—probably—be okay, I raise my hand, intending to offer it in introduction, when the omega who slid from the garage roof drops into the seat beside me. I hadn’t seen or heard him approach.

Startled, I freeze, and a knowing smirk spreads along his lips.

Clear blue eyes fixed on mine, he settles in so close that our thighs almost touch. He holds his hand out in an impatient grabbing gesture, and a small bottle of hand sanitiser is placed there by the man who sounds like a loveable chimney sweep. Those same blue eyes turn icy cold in an instant.

“Not what I want,” he grits out, smile perfectly in place the whole time.

Oooh, another Italian. Today just gets weirder and weirder.

“You want my laptop, you’ll use it.” The Englishman waits patiently, as if he has all the time in the world, but I can tell from the tense energy that strings between them all that they don’t.

None more so than the dark-haired, broody alpha who was guided to sit in the chair in front of Guardian in much the same way I was steered onto the sofa.

His energy signature is like nothing I’ve seen before; he’s so high strung that he’s almost vibrating out of his seat. Staring at him makes me feel a little nauseous, so I turn my focus back to the omega beside me, who has now traded the bottle of sanitiser for the laptop he wanted.

“Phone,” he snaps, making that same commanding gesture to me.

I look around, unsure if he means me. The laptop’s owner has taken a seat at the breakfast table by the window and is now writing something in a notepad. Guardian has one hand on the shoulder of the living stick of dynamite that occupies the chair in front of him. Tuesday leans nonchalantly in the doorway, tossing and catching a lighter. And when I focus on Ranger, who still clutches that bag of pastries, he nods at me—encouragingly, I like to think.

Leaning slightly, I unzip my jacket pocket and hand my phone over. It’s snatched from my grip, but my protest about his unnecessary passive-aggressive behaviour dies on my tongue when he plugs it in. “Oh, thanks.”

Cold blue eyes map my face, as if trying to ascertain if I’m being genuine or starting shit.

Hurrying to clarify, I add, “I forgot to put it on charge last night, and I’d only just plugged it in when that guy broke into my apartment. I wasn’t thinking when I left, and didn’t bring my—”

“I’m cloning it, not charging it.” He dismisses me in favour of rapidly clicking on various icons on the screen.

Intrigued, I lean closer to watch over his shoulder. I don’t really understand any of what I’m seeing, though.

I pull back, and he glances between me and my phone. “Although, I suppose…” He lifts the phone to show me the screen. “That yes, it’s also charging.”

Unsure what prompted this slight change in his aura—maybe I passed one of the little internet quiz things he’s running on my phone—but also not wanting to let an opportunity to ease things between us all pass me by, I stick out my hand.

“Milo,” I introduce myself.

He glances between my hand and my face, then back to my hand again.

“Bear,” he says.

Such a short and simple word, except there’s that something about him again. As if he’s anticipating—no, daring me to comment on it.

“Bear. I always wanted a cool name.”

Bear doesn’t comment further, instead he retracts his hand and turns his gaze to his pack. Interestingly, he looks first to Guardian, not Ranger.

“Lieutenant Alfie Beckett,” the Englishman offers his name, instead but he pronounces it left-en-ant.

There’s something so proper about it that I can’t help but sit up straight. Of course these are military werewolves, why didn’t I see that before? They’re all insanely fit and healthy, and a small group of alphas all together—none of them local—living in a house that’s clearly not a home but a… What did Tuesday call it? A Nest.

Suddenly incredibly self-conscious, I raise my hand and press my fingertips against my temple. But then, wait, is that the American way? These wolves are all British. Okay, not all, because Guardian is definitely American, Tuesday’s Australian, and Bear, I’m pretty sure, is Italian.

I tuck in a few fingers like I’ve seen on TV shows.

From the chair in the corner, the wolf whose energy swings more wildly than a barn door in a hurricane claps his hands, stomps his feet, and hollers with laughter. “I like him,” he says, raking his dark-green eyes over me. “Cute, too.”

Ranger takes a step between us, partially obscuring my view. A growl crawls up his throat, low and menacing. A warning. It drags the hairs on the back of my neck up with it.

The other wolf only laughs harder.