Page 29 of Werewolves and Witches AU

13

Werewolves Eat Brunch

Rowan

What I like most about cooking with American ovens is that they’re several inches wider than Scottish ones. I slide the grill pan, complete with forty breakfast sausages, onto the middle shelf and set the timer. What I dislike most about cooking with American groceries is that they still don’t readily stock Lorne—and I know Guardian would have tried, because he prefers our square sausage over what he’s getting today.

Opening the pantry doors wide helps calm my wolf; it’s not just well-stocked, it’s so neatly organised that I have no trouble locating what I need. I give thanks to Guardian for ensuring my one requirement for this Nest was met.

Heaving out a five-pound sack of potatoes, I set about peeling them all. The rhythmic schluck-schluck of the peeler through the skins is soothing. This is how post-operation downtime is supposed to be. Me in here, making sure my unit is well-fed and energised, Delilah out there in the command centre, considering our intel and strategising our next move… and Milo.

Milo, Milo, Milo.

I stretch out my neck and select another potato.

Everything about Operation Magpie has been unpredictable from the start—and now I’m preparing tattie scones for a witch. I huff a quiet chuckle.

Not that I mind. I enjoy cooking, enjoy serving full-to-overflowing plates and watching as my men pack away a hearty meal. Especially after a mission. And while he’s under my care, that includes feeding Milo too.

He might not have made an overnight flight and then been blown up, but from the story he told us, Milo’s had a trying morning of his own, and he also needs to replenish.

As I finish the last potato, and swap the peeler for a knife, a sense of profound calm begets a sudden and unusual urge to go all out. Chances are, Milo’s never eaten Scottish home-cooking before, and I find myself paying a little more attention to dicing than normal to guarantee an even boil.

Every recipe I know comes from my heart, handed down through the generations so my pack can be kept strong and healthy. Tattie scones are humble fare, but by god they’re delicious. I drop them into the salted water, and balance a wooden spoon across the top of the pot to stop it boiling over while I see to the tomatoes and mushrooms.

Mine is a military family, and good food—shared—is how we’ve gotten through some of the toughest and darkest days. It’s the same for my unit. No matter how tough the mission, sitting down afterward with a rustic meal that fills our stomachs has eased the heaviest minds. This morning’s clusterfuck of a mission is no different.

I’ll serve the Dogs a full Scottish breakfast, and Milo will join us in eating tattie scones hot from the griddle and soaked in butter.

I separate the bacon rashers and slide them into the oven on the rack under the sausages. Then I pump out a few squirts of hand soap, and turn on the tap with my elbow. Apple Fresh. The fragrance reminds me of Milo.

My wolf had caught his scent long before I laid eyes on him. So I’d been wrong earlier—his eyes weren’t the first thing I noticed, but the second.

That fresh and crisp aroma of apples had immediately transported me back home to my family’s orchard, despite the fact that it had been masked under a strong layer of mint. Shower gel, if I had to guess. Milo’s hair had still been damp—probably because of its longer length. My sisters have the same problem, but where their hair is red like mine, Milo’s is white like the moon.

I dry my hands on the nearby towel, throw it over my shoulder, drain the potatoes, and pull out another couple of pans.

I’d noticed Milo’s hair because he’d been backing down the path away from Tuesday and Guardian, and despite his size, I knew it wasn’t Guardian who Milo had been focused on. Tuesday’s an intimidating alpha—it’s the arsonist in him, I reckon.

Gripping the masher tightly, I pound out the memory of our meeting as fast as Milo’s heart had pumped the blood around his body when he’d realised I was standing behind him. He’d been in the middle of a pack of werewolves, and not just any pack, yet the overriding emotion I’d picked up hadn’t been fear, but confusion. A state of being that stayed consistent throughout his interrogation by Bear—a certified psychopath.

I drop a couple of sticks of butter into the mound of steaming mashed potatoes.

Milo hadn’t understood why, when he’d rung the Witches Council, our General’s Office had intercepted his call and directed him here. Even if we’d had an answer about why, we’re not at liberty to disclose top-secret information, especially when it concerns the General himself. But I share Milo’s frustration, and I need to call Admiral Guerrieri myself because clearly the bawbag isn’t going to call me.

Milo has no idea about any trinket or artefact—and I believe him—so why was he directed here? He isn’t a member of the Raleigh Coven, and hasn’t been for years, and the only thing out of the ordinary he’d had to say was how he’d found the Lost Colony of Roanoke and wanted our help to set them free.

That creative imagination is probably exactly why he’s not a member of the local coven. I laugh to myself and tip the scone dough out onto the countertop.

“Sorry to interrupt, Ranger…” Delilah’s dark eyes scan the nearby surfaces and I know he’s looking for whatever utensil or knife is close by that I could throw at him.

I growl. My unit knows not to interrupt me when I’m in here.

“It’s your Pup,” Delilah adds before immediately backing out.

My Pup. I scoff. So that’s how they’re calling this one, is it?

When I follow Delilah through the door, I find him standing over Milo with a concerned look on his face.