Page 39 of Werewolves and Witches AU

Despite his fiddling, he’s being truthful. If Milo is in possession of the Luna del Lupo, then he genuinely doesn’t know what it is. And that makes the stakes of this mission even more dangerous.

“He’s not going to stop, is he? Time Guy?” Milo lifts his gaze from his knees to meet mine, and from under dark lashes his grey eyes remind me of the winter sea back home—powerful, and deadly if you misjudge it.

“He’s not,” I confirm. This time it’s my turn to take his hands and fold them gently inside mine. “But whatever this trinket is, it protects ye from his magic, and—if ye noticed—without that, he bleeds just like everyone else.”

Milo nods in acknowledgment of my words, but it lacks all his usual pep. I squeeze his hands, as if it might transfer some energy into him. “Besides, yer under my protection now, remember?”

“Neeps and tatties,” he says quietly, his lips curving into a small smile.

“Neeps and tatties.”

If you’d have told me even a day ago, that one chaotic witch would become the key to survival for the entire Romulan Bloodline, I’d have assumed Tuesday had gotten access to the water supply and laced it. But as I sit here now, watching Milo watch me, I’m surprised to realise that I’m not mad about it. Without him, we’d be in a much worse position.

Releasing his hands, I push to a stand, and dust chalk and salt from the backs of my thighs. “So, we need to get ye a bag packed…”

Suddenly, Milo stands too, almost slipping over on a discarded Sharpie. “That’s okay, it’ll be easier to do it myself.”

Morbidly fascinated, I watch Milo precisely select half-buried items as if he can recognise them by the tiniest corner that pokes out from under something else. I hide a bemused smile behind my hand, and scratch through my short beard. Something tells me this carnage is less breaking and entering, and more Milo.

17

Insubordinate Bawbags

Rowan

The taxi rolls to a gentle stop at the end of our driveway, and I’m relieved to see the Yukon parked in front of the garage. Grabbing the handle of Milo’s backpack from the footwell between us, I heft it up onto the seat. I didn’t see all of what he packed, because when he dropped to his knees and stretched out long to reach under the bed—arse wiggling high in the air—I occupied myself with setting his kitchenette to rights.

“What ye got in here, Pup? Bricks?”

He rolls his head languidly along the back of the seat and slow blinks. “Hmm?”

Groggily, his gaze floats from my face to the bag, then back up again. “Oh,” he chuckles quietly. “Close. Crystals.”

I huff out a quiet chuckle of my own—of course my chaotic witch packed crystals when I’d clearly instructed him to pack only essentials. When I realise how I just referred to him, I unfasten my seatbelt, climb out, and inhale a big lungful of fresh air.

Under my protection—not mine.

Milo’s slower to exit the taxi; his limbs are laced with tiredness, and I don’t need my wolf to point out his exhaustion. Today, he’s been assaulted twice and effectively kidnapped. By now, he must be running on fumes. He hip-checks the trunk of the taxi on the way past and winces.

Instinct, and years of training, have me furtively checking the neighbourhood while Milo practically drags himself up the garden path. With every lumbering step that our Package takes away from me, there’s a creeping sense of unease. My wolf, it seems, is taking his duty of care seriously.

When I open the door and usher Milo through, the house is quiet. Depositing his bag at the foot of the stairs, I guide him through to the living room where the entire unit is seated in tense silence.

Every werewolf here just learned that if we fail this mission, it’s not just their lives that are forfeit, but their family’s lives too. I owe them more than the few coded messages I sent earlier, I know that, but the hostility Bear’s emitting is my primary focus.

Captain Leo’s family is considered military royalty, just a few steps removed from General Romulus himself, and while Operation Magpie is black ops, we all know there’s very strong chance Bear’s father, Field Marshal Orsini di Anguillara, will have had a missive cross his desk. Bear’s a nepo baby—not that anyone ever says that out loud, not if they want to keep their tongue—and the old bastard scrutinises every breath Bear takes.

If Papa Bear were to become privy to the intel Milo just uncovered for us, he’d assume tactical command of my unit without hesitation, and that’s the driving force behind Bear’s current level of agitation. His designation as an omega would be enough to stand Bear down from the fight for survival of all werewolf kind—irrespective of his superb record—and all that stands between him and that fate… is Milo.

Unable to contain it any longer, Bear explodes from the chair he’d been perching on nearest the door. Guardian makes no move to block him. Wise. In this mood, Bear would stab you in the spleen first and ask questions later. Also, Guardian isn’t a werewolf, and Bear’s wolf is currently in the driving seat.

I straighten to full height to block the doorway… and Milo, who’s so close behind me I can feel his hot breaths on the back of my neck. My fingers twitch against the urge to reach back and place a shielding hand on him.

“Don’t put yourself between us, Ranger.” The tendons in Bear’s neck are taut, as he shortens his words and leans more into his Italian heritage than his French one. “I will go through you.”

“Ye’ll sit yer arse down, Captain, and ye’ll ask yer questions in a civilised manner.” I tower over Bear, and the top of his head barely reaches my chest, but it would be a mistake to underestimate him.

“He shook my hand, sir. Looked me dead in the eye and told me he didn’t know about any trinket, nor enchantment, that the General might be looking for.”