Page 31 of Werewolves and Witches AU

“Ghost form?” Milo asks, confusion written over his stud-indented face.

I incline my head toward the sofa. “The second ye that hovers just above the real ye when yer sleeping.”

Milo freezes in place, inhaling through softly parted lips. Then, “Oh. Right. Yeah.” He scratches his fingers through his messy hair and looks about the room. “That.”

“Aye, that. But first, food. I need to fry off the tattie scones and eggs.” I side-step him and return to the sanctuary of my kitchen.

The dough has cooled.

Releasing a sigh, I turn on the stove and pour the oil into the pans. While it heats, I divide the dough, and just as I pour the mix into the pan, Milo comes through the kitchen door. With a nod of my chin, I point him at the cutlery drawer.

The next time he comes back through, I’m plating up. I hand him his, and follow him to the dining room with the hot tray of sausages and bacon rashers. Delilah whistles for the rest of the Dogs, and after a few more trips back and forth, everyone’s eventually seated around a polished oak table and digging in with gusto.

I smile at them all, my wolf satisfied with their appetites. But it’s Milo’s happy little noises as he tucks into his third tattie scone that have me pausing with a loaded fork midway to my mouth.

Refocusing on the mission, I inform him, “After brunch, I need to do some work.”

Milo doesn’t stop eating while I speak.

“If ye want a change of scenery, ye can go for walk or something. But ye can’t tell anyone about us—or this house.” I shovel the food into my mouth, then use the now empty fork to point around the table at my pack while I chew. “Not if ye want to remain a Package and not a hostage. Got it?”

Still, he doesn’t stop eating, not even with my ultimatum. “Mhm.”

He stabs his fork into an item on his plate and brings it up between us to wave it about. “What’s this? This is really good.”

“I call it black pudding, but I think ye might know it as blood sausage.”

Milo nods and stuffs the slice into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he performs a little chair-jig in contentment while he chews.

My wolf analyses him, and so do I. Either this witch is the best spy any of us have ever encountered, or he’s absolutely genuine with everything he’s said. In which case, Admiral Guerrieri is going to get an earful, because now is not the time for the Dogs to be babysitting chaotic witches.

Absently, I reach for another rasher of bacon from the tray at the centre of the table, only for the prongs of my fork to strike steel. Turning then, I note the lack of any meat, eggs, or beans. Only a few soggy tattie scones and a handful of grilled tomato slices are left. My frown deepens.

I’ve been so preoccupied with our Package that I haven’t loaded my plate like the others have, and now I’m shit out of luck.

Delilah won’t eat mushrooms, so his plate is all but swimming in beans. Bear has Delilah’s helping of mushrooms—just to fuck with him, because he’s also sat next to him. Tuesday is persevering in cutting open a tattie scone with surgical precision so he can hide the extra bacon he took inside it. Thriller’s leaning back in his chair, rubbing his bloated stomach lovingly as if pregnant, and Guardian, having used the tattie scones to mop up the juices on his plate, has his elbows on the table and his fingers steepled under his chin while he watches over them all.

More than bacon, this is what my wolf and I needed: all of us together, healthy and sated, ready for whatever this mission brings our way. I smile at my pack and scrape my chair back as I stand.

Snatching the bacon-stuffed scone from Tuesday’s hand when it’s an inch from his wide-open mouth, I wink at him, and ignore the mix of melted butter and bacon grease that dribbles down my palm as I take a gratuitous bite.

“Awww mate. You fucking what?” he protests, mouth still open.

He won’t push it, not if he knows what’s good for him. He stole the entire bag of croissants I bought for the pack earlier, and he knows it. Those indecisive blue-green eyes narrow, and I swallow the mouthful with a moan of appreciation.

Tattie scone bacon piece is good.

“Right,” I announce, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. “Ye lot are officially back on the clock.”

While they bitch and moan, and fight over the last scraps of brunch, I take another bite. Tuesday’s eyes never leave my face. “Delilah’s got yer orders, and as usual Guardian’s yer CO for the afternoon.”

Shoving the last of the tattie scone piece in my mouth, I speak through it to command Tuesday to, “Clear the table.”

Milo’s already stacking my plate with his, and the sound of clanging crockery, as well as the rest of the Dogs filing out, almost drowns out Tuesday’s colourful response. “Massive ginger cunt.”

“Oooh,” exclaims Milo, pausing with a collection of dirty forks in one hand and a stack of used plates in the other. “That’s why you’re called Tuesday—makes sense now.”

I laugh. Loudly. Then suck the grease off my fingers before grabbing the plates from him. “Aye, Pup. That’s exactly why.”