Page 76 of Werewolves and Witches AU

Sitting, I pick up my fork, and shake my head—no.

“Which means we need to shave daily if we don’t want to resemble a rogue wolf.” Rowan picks up his fork and uses it to point at the mirror that’s precariously balanced on the arm of the sofa, where it waits for the salt to help cleanse it. “And concave mirrors are the best at guaranteeing a close shave.”

Something in the way his intense eyes bore into me as he presses his point forces mine lower, to the steaming bowl of handmade pasta set before me. Is he… upset with me for taking the mirror?

It’s not broken, and I’ll put it back. Besides, all the bathrooms have one, so it’s not like he can’t shave. And anyway, he has a beard, so he doesn’t need the mirror for magnifying properties. And anyway anyway, he’s a werewolf. He could probably precision-shave his name into something from ten paces.

I twirl my fork until it’s loaded with spaghetti, then shove it in my mouth so I don’t say any of that out loud. It’s far too hot. And it’s still too hot when I swallow it. But my eyes roll back in their sockets at how good it tastes, and I moan out loud.

Through a half-chewed mouthful, I mutter, “What magic do you do in there to make food taste so good?”

Rowan smirks, twirling his own forkful of spaghetti. “Ye like this?”

I’m already on my second mouthful when I answer. “Mhm.”

“The sauce has a blend of wild boar and venison from my family’s estate. I always keep a small, frozen stock for… reasons.” Rowan refocuses on his food, but I hear what he leaves unsaid.

His family are scattered around Europe, there’s a threat to his Bloodline, and Guardian’s transferring out right when he needs him the most. Rowan’s reasons for wanting to use a homemade meat sauce today, of all days, are pretty obvious—he needs to re-establish a connection to his pack somehow.

But as much as I empathise, I also don’t know what to say. I want to reach out and hold his hand, offer that support through physical touch, but after earlier… I’m not sure that my touch would be welcome. So I nod and shove another forkful of rich game pasta into my mouth instead.

And Rowan does the same.

So I twirl another forkful.

And so does he.

And all that can be heard is the gentle clinking of cutlery while we eat in silence.

Until his phone buzzes from inside his pocket with an alert for an incoming message. Resting his fork on the lip of the dish, he reads it, then stands to fetch his laptop. Wordlessly, he sets it up on the table so we can both see the screen, and I have this uncomfortable pang of sadness in my stomach over the loss of our easy camaraderie. I push it down with another full and flavoursome mouthful of spaghetti.

Rowan clicks on a few things, and then a presentation runs full-screen while we each finish our dinner.

Between us, image after image of all the employees at the Office of Time—not just the heads of departments—scroll past. There must be hundreds of them, and yet I’d never heard of it until Time Guy burst into my room a couple of days ago.

Slide after slide whizzes by, and all the employees’ facial features blur into one. Two eyes start to resemble one long eye, which is kind of funny. But then… wait. Are cyclops real? Do they work at the Office of Time?

The image of a cyclops in a suit with a briefcase makes me snort a laugh, and Rowan arches an eyebrow.

I straighten in my seat because some voice at the back of my head says it helps with concentration, but honestly, I blame Rowan, because I don’t know anyone who could pay attention to this task after eating a massive bowl of carbs.

Then… there! Time Guy.

Of the two red-haired men I’ve met recently, this is the one I never want to see again. Although Time Guy’s hair is less ginger and more of a dull red-brown. Lifeless. Not like the vibrancy of…

Rowan pauses the slide show and clicks the image to follow a series of on-screen prompts.

“Janus,” he says in a sneer. “Yer Time Guy has a name.”

“A stupid one…” I mumble.

Rowan nods in agreement as he texts on his phone. “Janus is the head of the department of Transitions—”

“Transitions, as in how the fabric of time folds in on itself?”

He thinks for a moment, then that tightness around his eyes softens just a little. “Aye, just like that, I reckon.”

His phone buzzes. “The Dogs don’t have a current location on Janus. His photo was provided by his PA—an old acquaintance of Guardian’s papa.”