Page 69 of Werewolves and Witches AU

I scrub my hand over my face. This is all my fuckin’ fault… “Okay.”

“Okay? You really mean it? I get to do Operation Hairbrush? Now?”

“I mean it. But yer not calling it that.”

“What are we calling it, then?”

I untwist to face forward, and mutter under my breath. “I need to get my fuckin’ head checked.”

“That seems like an unnecessarily complicated mission name,” Milo comments from the back as he tugs pointlessly on the hem of his hoodie. “Do you have one I can borrow? I didn’t exactly dress for covert ops this morning.”

I collect my phone from the dash and type a check-in to Guardian.

Magpie ate all the breadcrumbs but one.

To Milo, I answer, “Yeah, I always keep a spare set of clothes in that case. My hoodie will be too big on ye, though—impractical on an active mission. Use the long-sleeved T-shirt, and tie it at the waist.”

There’s a brief flash of white-blond hair in the mirror when he nods, then his hoodie is whipped clear over his head. I’m unable to look away as Milo—half naked on the back seat—rifles through my folded and precision-packed bag like he has no idea what he’s looking for.

Lean muscles flex under smooth skin.

The undiluted scent of apples fills the cab.

I swallow. Then blink. Then stare harder.

It’s not just Milo’s ears and face that are pierced, his nipples are too. And like everything else on this alluring witch, they reflect his unique brand of chaos. Not one of the little plastic balls that close the bars matches in colour: red, blue, purple, and black.

Before I can malfunction, I force my gaze to the side-view mirrors.

Milo emits a soft groan as he pulls my shirt over his head, then gets subsequently drowned in material.

Smartly, I step out of the vehicle, slam the door, brace both hands on the roof of the truck, and inhale the non-apple-scented air deep into my lungs.

25

Operation Hairbrush

Rowan

Eventually, Milo climbs out too. My black T-shirt is tied at the waist, as per my explicit instruction, and I wonder if perhaps I made a mistake…

How come I can handle four alpha wolves, a murderous omega, and a guardian angel… but not one chaotic witch? Putting my thoughts on a very tight—and very short—leash, I resume command of my pack.

“Right,” I say, hoping that one word magically helps me pull myself together. “We need a cover story in case a resident stops us and asks what we’re doing. And as much as I loathe to say this Magpie, my accent is the one thing about me I’ve always struggled to change. Add to that my general appearance…”

Milo gives me an obvious and flirtatious once-over. “I agree, Ranger. You’re hard to miss.”

I falter, my tenuous grip on this mission slipping while I try to work out if… no. I’m the commanding officer here.

“Which means,” I redirect. “If we’re stopped, yer going to have to do the talking, Magpie.”

Werewolves don’t have a god, or a patron saint, but when I tilt my face skyward, I pray to any deity that might be listening that no one within a one mile radius of our current location needs to speak to us for at least an hour.

When I look back at Milo, I expect to see him smiling at the idea that he gets to invent another tall tale and sell it to some unsuspecting civvie, but instead there’s a look of focused determination.

It helps me relax. If Milo can hang onto that, then this might just work.

“We stay together at all times; yer still under my care. Time Guy is out there somewhere, and we don’t know how his powers work, but he’s found ye three times now, which means he could find us here too.”