Page 49 of Werewolves and Witches AU

Neither Delilah nor Guardian are attending to their paperwork, but rather they’re staring at me.

Uncertain if I should be reporting to them, I push the stack of plates forward a little and explain. “Rowan wants the table set.”

“You hear this, Guardian?” Delilah asks, a strange smile creeping over his lips as his gaze strays to the kitchen door over my shoulder.

“I do, Delilah. But are you seeing this? Does your wolf smell blood? Is he injured?”

“Not a speck.”

“What?” I ask, my eyes bouncing between them.

Guardian chuckles and shakes his head, flicking a finger out to briefly point at the kitchen. “If one of us went in there while he was cooking, after the mission orders he gave earlier, we’d have had one of his precious knives sent through the air after us.”

Slowly, mouth parting in shock, I turn and look back at the closed door.

“Oh, don’t worry, Milo. I think Rowan’s got entirely different plans for you,” Guardian muses.

The kitchen door bangs open, and Rowan uses Delilah’s laptop as a trivet for his hot skillet. “Help him set up, instead of running yer mouth.”

Delilah simply stares. Shock, I suspect. At least, that’s what it is on my part. This isn’t the Rowan from a minute ago who spoke softly and smiled gently.

Then Delilah asks, “Do you want to know the probability that this—”

“No.” Rowan turns and stalks back to the kitchen.

Lifting the skillet, melted plastic stringing like grilled cheese from the bottom of the pan, Delilah frowns, then ushers me through the entrance hall and into the dining room.

“What mission orders?” I ask, setting the plates around the table.

“We’re all flying to Italy later tonight.” Delilah’s matter-of-fact delivery means it takes my brain a few seconds to register what he just said. A plate slips from my grasp when it does and crashes onto the table. “Oh, you don’t need to worry. Ranger’s staying here with—”

“Magpie.” Rowan interrupts, entering with a mountain of buttered potatoes.

“Magpie, huh?” Delilah pauses, hands braced over the back of a chair. “Clever. I can see it. Did you know magpies are also highly monogamous birds that mate for life?”

Rowan leaves the room without so much as a word, and my stomach flips. The tense energy he radiates travels through me on a discordant frequency. Somehow, I feel like I’ve done something wrong, but I can’t think what that might be. Except… if he’s sending his pack away, but he can’t join them because of me…

Guardian walks in with cutlery in one hand and his phone in the other. “The male magpie typically performs courtship feeding,” he reads aloud.

“Wait. What?” I scratch my head.

There’s something here I’m missing, I’m certain of it. Neither Delilah nor Guardian’s energy matches Rowan’s. Engaged in conversation about the traits of magpies, they take a seat next to one another.

Rowan comes back in with a small pot of green beans and two bottles of white wine, then gives a shrill whistle. Thundering feet on the stairs signal the arrival of the rest of the Dogs, who tear downstairs and grab seats as if the last man standing might be subject to some misfortune.

Unsure who sits where, and not wanting to fight a werewolf for a spot at the table, I hesitate. Rowan moves to stand next to me, blocking their access counterclockwise around the table, then pulls the chair on his left out, indicating I should sit with a minute tilt of his head. No one else is so much as glancing our way, all preoccupied with piling their plates as fast and high as they can, and I smile when I sit.

Whatever the earlier point of tension between Delilah, Guardian, and Rowan was, it dissipates further with every second we share a meal. The bottles of wine are opened, one sent left and the other right, a couple of potatoes roll loose from their dish and over the table, and Rowan nudges the bowl of green beans closer to me. I scrape half onto my plate under his watchful eye.

In a wordless routine, everyone shares the salt and pepper, the butter, and the greens. Tucking in, they all wave their forks about—loaded with asparagus and chicken—about as they rib and josh each other. Happy to soak up their camaraderie, I contentedly munch on my pan-fried garlic chicken.

When was the last time I had this? Family. A group of people, united in cause and friendship, all sharing good food and good times.

“Everything okay with yer food, Magpie?” Rowan asks, hazel eyes monitoring me from under a heavy brow.

“Yeah. Really good. Thanks.” I shovel in a potato.

It would be too easy to belong here—as Magpie, or as Milo—but this isn’t my family. This is Ranger’s family. And it would be dangerous to my self-preservation to think differently.