Page 47 of Werewolves and Witches AU

That question, in that accent, holds all the soothing properties of aloe. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s enough aloe—or brogue—on planet earth to neutralise the hot ball of embarrassment that twists my insides into knots. Nodding my answer, I storm across the kitchen and furiously open cupboards until I find a glass.

Filling it too fast with cold water from the tap causes it to splash up and over the lip. I ignore it, lean my hip against the sink, and drink liberally. Thankfully, Rowan returns his focus to his task. Grateful for the distraction, so do I.

There’s a large pot of what looks like potatoes, peeled and cut into chunks, already simmering on the stove. Set beside it, waiting, is a large cast-iron skillet. On the countertop next to the stove, there must be twenty butterflied chicken breasts, coated in flour and herbs, resting on a long wooden board. And at the end of that same counter, chopping asparagus into perfect diagonal slices, is Rowan.

Ordinarily, the evil vegetable would pull all my attention, but I can’t force my gaze from the way the tendons in his forearms flex while he expertly wields that paring knife.

Has meal prep ever been this hot before? I take another large sip.

The overhead spotlights catch on the auburn hairs on his arms, work-toughened fingers hold the green stems firmly, and each fluid roll of a very thick wrist powers the slicing motion of the blade.

Tuesday’s Australian accent suddenly sounds in my mind. “Imagine it hurting in the most exquisite way.”

I choke on a mouthful of water.

“Ah. Did Thriller wake ye just now? I told him to use headphones.” Rowan finishes the cut he’s making and puts the knife down, wiping his hands on the small kitchen towel tucked into the waistband of his pants. “I’ll go remind him.”

Why is there never a sinkhole when you need one?

“No. No, it’s his house. I’m just a guest.”

Rowan takes a step or two closer, and although I’m tall, I still have to tilt my chin a little to maintain eye contact. He watches me for a moment, hazel eyes searching my face, then he opens the cupboard beside me and retrieves a tray of jarred spices.

I exhale.

“Not our house either,” Rowan points out. “Yer looking better, Pup. More colour. Ye sleep well?”

Thankful for the change in topic, I latch on, and nod fiercely.

Rowan selects the Spanish paprika and returns the tray to the cupboard. Again, he pauses to look deep into my eyes, and this time his lighten to the golden colour I now recognise as his wolf. Rowan nods then, as if to himself, and returns to his preparations.

“You like to cook?” I ask, desperate to keep the conversation flowing so I can stay in here.

“Aye.”

I place the now empty glass in the sink and move a bit closer to watch as he sets the heat under the skillet. “I can tell.”

When Rowan drops the asparagus into the hot oil, my nose wrinkles and my top lip curls up.

He picks up the pan like it doesn’t weigh the same as a baby elephant and tosses the contents until they’re evenly coated in the oil. “Ye not keen on asparagus?”

I shake my head, but the look of disgust remains in place. “Fucksparagus.”

Rowan laughs out loud. “That’d make an excellent safe word for ye, then.”

“What?” I splutter on my own spit.

“In the Dogs, we all have codenames, as ye’ve probably noticed, but we also have safe words. Something we’d never usually willingly say to alert the others to a situation that’s fubar.”

I chew hard on my bottom lip in an attempt to eradicate the mental image of an alpha knot, and any need for a safe word, from my brain.

And Rowan refocuses on not burning his asparagus. Intently. As if he either just realised how I interpreted his comment, or as if he’s taking the same brain-cleansing steps I am.

Without lifting his eyes from the skillet, he quietly adds, “We should give ye a codename, though. Package seems… impersonal.”

Rowan points his oil-coated tongs at a plate just out of reach, and I scramble to hold it so he can lift out the asparagus. When he’s finished, I set the plate beside me on the counter, then lean against it and eye the contents with a strong look of distrust.

“Do ye eat green beans? I could substitute those in for ye easily enough.”