Page 63 of Werewolves and Witches AU

Instead, as if adhered, my thumb settles over the trigger point in the muscle by his shoulder blade and I rub small concentric circles over it.

Milo surrenders into my custody. A quiet breath spills from between his lips, and he releases the tension he’s carried since we met.

It’s a heady feeling. One that must work like an anaesthetic because, while I’m cognizant that this is crossing a professional line, it’s as if I no longer have the freedom of autonomy.

I’m aware of the lies I tell myself: he’s an asset under a lot of stress, and I’m responsible for his wellbeing; he’s crucial to the survival of all Romulan werewolves; he’s a liability if he’s strung out.

And yet… round and round the pad of my thumb works the knot it’s found. In part because Milo’s responding with submission and that’s like a drug to the alpha in me, but also because I think it might take an act of god to force me to break physical contact with him when just this small amount of it feels like it does.

Until we enter the kitchen and turn on the bright overhead lights. The fluorescence works like daylight on a vampire.

I release him from my grip as if burned, and he twists away as if scalded.

Wordlessly, we each retreat to opposite ends of the large kitchen and find something to immediately distract ourselves with. Milo pulls open the pantry doors and steps inside, and I lean against the counter in front of the window.

Of all the missions—and of all the Packages—never once has it been like this.

The sudden vibrating alert of an incoming message cuts through the storm of thoughts that cloud my mind. I welcome the distraction.

Guardian:

The Dogs are in their kennel.

The relief that my unit made it to their safe house in Rome is short-lived. Despite knowing that they’re together, that they’ll have prepared for every contingency on the flight over there, it doesn’t alleviate the very real stress that clenches my heart inside an invisible fist.

This is, hands down, the most high-stakes mission we’ve ever conducted, and not only are we not whole—not pack—but we’re operating in the General’s home city without his knowledge or permission. We’re all also sleep-deprived. Milo’s probably had the most sleep of any of us. I huff a quiet chuckle at the memory of him calling his astral travel a dreamscapade. Maybe he’s not that rested either.

I scroll on from Guardian to the next text message thread, looking for anything that will help cut thoughts of Milo off at the pass. Admiral Guerrieri is still waiting on an update from me, and I won’t be able to stall him for much longer. Operation Tempo needs to yield results—fast—because if he issues new mission orders before they’re done, then the unit’s unauthorised rules of engagement will be uncovered, and—

“Shit!” Milo’s loud curse interrupts my train of thoughts.

Immediately, my head snaps up, and I repocket my phone. Milo has his finger sucked into his mouth, full red lips sealed tightly around the tip.

Averting my gaze, I regard the chaotic state of my kitchen. Two wholewheat tortillas are laid out directly on the counter, one already opened can of tuna is set aside, and another—its lid partially raised—precariously balances on the edge. There’s also a bag of pre-cut salad leaves, a jar of mayonnaise, a large spoon, and a discarded can opener… leaving no doubt as to what just happened.

My eyes cut back to Milo, who pulls his finger from his mouth, scrutinises it, flaps his hand a little, then sucks it back in.

Straightening, I close the distance between us. “Ye okay, Pup?”

Without waiting for a response, I wrap my larger hand over Milo’s to pry the injured finger from between his lips. Like a mantra, I tell myself to focus on the wound.

“Stupid can lids. I do it every time.” His laugh is self-deprecating, and I feel my brow sink lower. Milo reclaims his hand from mine, and frowns in kind.

“Anyway…” His cheeks flooded pink, he turns and tears off a sheet of paper towel that he uses to encase his finger, before resuming his… construction.

Abject horror freezes me in place.

Firstly, not since I was old enough to assert myself territorially has anyone ever usurped me in the kitchen. Even Mum knows better, and she’s our omega matriarch. Yet this waifish human, having brazenly raided my pantry right under my nose, is preparing lunch without a care in the world and with a wiggle in his hips.

Which leads smartly into the second issue: I hate tuna. We only keep it stocked because Thriller insists, and he only does that so he has an excuse to goad me into a fight of the Gaelics. My frown deepens further.

Milo turns his head to shoot me a small smile, and anything I might have been about to say dies on my tongue.

“Since I turned up unannounced on your doorstep early yesterday morning, you’ve been really hospitable: the brunch, last night with dinner, and again with the iced coffees and breakfast wrap this morning. Not to mention that you saved my life. Probably.”

He wrestles the lid the rest of the way off the can, then promptly upends the compressed contents directly onto the tortilla, before then scraping out any remaining chunks of the devil’s fish with the spoon that I know he will also use for the mayonnaise.

“So, I wanted to do something back—to say thank you—for taking me in and keeping me safe.”