Page 48 of Werewolves and Witches AU

“Sure, yeah.” My shoulders slope away from my ears. “Thanks. That’d be great.”

Stepping around me to the fridge, he digs about in the salad crisper—that actually contains vegetables. With his foot, he hooks a low drawer open, lifts out a colander, then dumps a small packet of green beans in to rinse under the tap.

Watching Rowan cook is fascinating. I’m so caught up that I don’t realise how close we are until I feel that unnatural werewolf body heat pouring off him. But I can’t bring myself to move. A heady, spiced smell, which I’m not sure is Spanish paprika at all, fills the air, and I breathe it in. My eyes flutter shut.

Mortification strikes me on the spot. I push off from the counter and take a large step back. Rowan’s brow drops as he tops and tails the beans.

From my new position on the other side of the sink, I pick up the pepper grinder and turn it over to look at the blades, before setting it back down. “Why do you cook?”

Rowan adds another glug of oil to the skillet, and chops the beans in half again while it heats. “What we do, the Dogs and me, it weighs heavy on the soul. We’re the very best—each of us chosen for a specific skillset or ability. We go to the places others won’t, and we do the missions others don’t even know about. We are the Dogs of War, Milo. We are not the gentleman soldier. We crawl over the ground and into the dark. We do not obey, but we do get the job done.”

He transfers the beans to a smaller plate, then places the floured chicken breasts in the skillet with a loud sizzle. “I cook because each time a Dog steps foot out the door, there’s a chance they won’t step back in. And no matter how much we prepare or train, we are the forsaken. Because once the kind of missions we excel at start, none of us are in control of the outcome.”

Rowan flips the breasts over, poking them down flat against the pan base. “But in here, I have that. I can prepare, and I can produce, and the outcome is sure and predictable.”

“The situation is within your control.”

“Aye.” He lifts out the chicken, and to the same pan he adds already finely chopped garlic and a glass of white wine that I only just noticed had been pushed back against the wall. “Also, I like to know my men are fed and healthy. That they’re well.”

He swaps his tongs for a wooden spoon and deglazes the pan as the wine bubbles and hisses.

It makes sense now, why he followed me to the coffee shop, then walked me home to pack, and why he made sure I slept in a bed. My gaze lands on the plate of prepared green beans, and I smile softly. He’s not just a unit leader, or a pack alpha, he’s a caretaker.

Daddy Rowan. The thought inspires a thunderous blush, and I lower my face to encourage my hair to fall forward.

While he squeezes lemon quarters into the pan, I pick up the salt shaker to avoid looking at his forearms. “Why’d you all do it? If it’s so dangerous.”

Rowan’s quiet for a minute, and then says, “Probably for the same reason ye were so hell-bent on freeing that Lost Colony.”

“But that’s because, in the five hundred years Sarah’s been trying to get help, I’m the only one who’s heard her. I’m the one who possesses the Luna del Lupo, and so I’m the only one who can.”

He waits for me to lift my gaze before giving a curt nod. “Aye. That.” Returning his focus to the skillet, he adds a jug of stock and all the chicken. “That something ye still want to do?”

Then he mirrors my pose, hip-checking the countertop while the kitchen fills with the mouthwatering aroma of garlic chicken, and flips the question back on me. “It’s dangerous, Milo. Ye’ve seen that for yerself. Why’s it so important to ye?”

“I’m not like you, Rowan. I don’t have one family at home and another I work with. I have Ethel. We’re all that’s left. And those people Time Guy trapped—”

“Time Guy?” Rowan chuckles.

“What else should I call him?”

“The Dogs are working on getting a name. Time Guy is fine.” His mouth is still pulled up in a small smile.

“Those colonists,” I continue. “All their families are dead now too. There’s no one left to fight for them either, and they need someone to, else he gets away with it, and that’s just—”

“Magpie.”

“Huh?”

“Your codename, it’s Magpie.”

“How’d you get from the Lost Colony of Roanoke to a magpie?”

“Well,” Rowan says, turning back to his skillet to poke the chicken about. “Ye ever met a magpie, Milo? They’re pretty, aye, but ye attack their family and the wee beasts’ll pluck yer eyes out.” Rowan retrieves a stack of plates from a cupboard. “Also, we were sent here on Operation Magpie to locate and retrieve the shiny trinket that the General’s wanting. Ye’d be that shiny, Milo.”

Rowan dumps the stack of plates into my arms, then motions to the door with a flick of his head. “Can ye set the table, Magpie?”

As I push through the door with my hip, Rowan calling me pretty runs on repeat in my mind.