Page 64 of Werewolves and Witches AU

I clench my jaw, but my expression softens. “Milo…”

“I mean, I can’t cook like you can,” he continues, spooning a heaped dollop of mayo onto the pile of solid tuna chunks. “But I’m capable of a tuna mayo wrap.”

I swallow. “You don’t have to…”

Milo rapidly shakes his head. “No, I know. I want to.”

Those pleading grey eyes, impossibly wide, suck me in like a riptide off the Berwickshire coast. Caught in it, I give a single, tight nod, and Milo’s smile stretches so wide it lights up his whole face.

Turning then, he busies himself with trying to stretch and wrap the tortilla around the putrid fish. While he works, he gives another one of those excited whole-body shimmies, and the hem of his cropped hoodie swings wildly. Dangerously.

I retreat back to the airy space across the kitchen in front of the window that overlooks the suburban lawn outside.

Milo the victorious draws near, fingers clenched around the rustic and lumpy food item that he proffers my way. I scan the counter for the plates… but there aren’t any.

“Thanks,” I manage through a terse smile.

Maybe if I ask for one, when he turns around, I could accidentally drop it on the floor?

Milo all but pushes the wrap into my reluctant hold, and rather than the smell of canned fish, my wolf fixates on the scent of fresh and crisp apples.

Without standing on ceremony, he takes the world’s biggest bite—eyes rolling back in their sockets while he chews—before he then nods at me in encouragement.

My mouth floods with saliva.

“Yer the alpha leader of the Dogs of War for fuck’s sake, ye can eat a mouthful of tuna mayo wrap. Ye won’t die,” I scold myself.

Under Milo’s watchful eye, I slowly bring the wrap close, all the while reminding myself of the specialised training I’ve received that has prepared me for missions in high-stress environments—and hold my breath.

The tortilla is soggy, the brine having soaked through, and my horrified gaze darts to Milo. His half-devoured wrap is held between us, saturating the air and overriding the delicate scent of apples. He didn’t drain the canning liquid?

Committed, and under duress, I bite through the mush, and the severed mouthful weighs heavily on my tongue. Briefly, I contend with the idea of just swallowing it straight down, but the thought of regurgitating it later induces a cold sweat. Reluctantly and feverishly, I chew.

My eyes flit wildly around the room, looking for any possible means of exfiltration. They land on the tap. A tap filled with water. So close, yet so far.

I choke the masticated lump down, then glance back at Milo, then back at the tap.

A sudden flash of bright purple streaks through my peripheral vision.

I snap to attention, turning bodily to stare out the window.

My wolf emits a low warning growl as he pushes forward to scan the hedges that line the lawn.

Wrap dumped on the side, I’m clear through the house and at the front door in a matter of seconds.

Time Guy.

My hand is already on the doorknob, when Milo’s long fingers—damp with tuna fish juice—wrap around my other wrist. “Wait. Ranger.”

My codename, spoken in Milo’s hushed and panicked voice, viscerally travels through me.

Waiting, I find Milo with mayonnaise at the corners of his lips, and eyes filled with concern. “You can’t go out there without me. Magpie: remember?”

Something odd coils through my insides. Probably the tuna.

It’s touching that he’s learned enough about how we operate in this short time to know to switch to using codenames, and to use them to convey clear meaning. Not just that, but when his first thought is to protect a pack member—even if it puts him at risk—he’s acting exactly like a Dog of War.

I pause to assess our situation. We’re alone here. Milo’s mine to keep safe, but he’s the one in possession of the Luna del Lupo. If I engage the enemy, he’s going to come with me, and we don’t have enough intel on the enchantment to know if whatever protective factor occurred yesterday is a one-time deal, or not.