Page 87 of Werewolves and Witches AU

Pounding my fist onto the countertop, I storm from the kitchen and take the stairs two at a time. Down the hallway I march, determined… and then halt midway.

The bathroom door is open, steam billowing out and carrying with it the faint scent of spiced apples.

“Milo?”

31

Spiced Apples

Rowan

Heart in my throat, I stretch my arm out long in front of me to push the door wider.

“Ye okay, Pup? It’s Rowan.”

No matter that Lieutenant Colonel Rowan Rangecroft has completed numerous tours in some of the most dangerous war zones in the world, there’s not any part of me that wants to step a single foot around the corner of this suburban bathroom door jamb. Images of Milo’s brains scattered up the white-tiled wall chill my blood despite the hot and damp air.

Scrunching my eyes shut, I send my wolf’s heightened sense ahead of me.

“Milo?” I call again, but my voice is barely audible.

Nothing.

On an exhale, I fall back on my training, and despite not carrying a weapon, I still breach with a dynamic entry.

My back promptly against the wall, I sweep the small room. Milo’s clothes are abandoned on the floor, the mirror he stole rests in a pool of water on the windowsill, and the shower relentlessly beats onto the bottom of an empty stall.

Stepping closer, I twist off the shower dial, and my wolf scans the drain for any evidence of blood. None.

In a pointless attempt to shed some tension, I swing my arm in an aggravated arc through the air, flinging water drops from the ends of my fingers.

Milo gets easily distracted, I know this, but what could have caused him to leave the shower running?

Exiting the bathroom, I move directly to his bedroom door, but when I knock—a little harder than maybe I usually would—the door opens wide and bounces off the drywall behind. It can’t have been clicked shut.

There’s no Milo here either, but the smell of apples is stronger in here. Not just apples—spiced apples.

His pillow is torn open, the goose-down filling distributed wildly over the bed and floor. A damp towel rests in a wonky arc, as if Milo had simply let it fall around his feet before stepping clear. The plastic covering still on the mattress assists my wolf in detecting bodily fluids, but none exist.

I take in the wider room. The window is closed and locked, but even if Milo went out that way, it’s a twenty-five-foot drop onto a gravelled path—my wolf would have heard.

Checking more closely, I discover that the only thing obviously unaccounted for is Milo’s backpack. Growling louder now, my wolf urges me out of the room.

Find. Protect. Pack.

Systematically, I clear every room on this floor before descending the stairs.

Pushing painfully under my skin, my wolf tries to force a shift—tracking Milo would be easier in that form—but I need to formulate a plan. Lurking at the back of my mind is the insidious thought that the reason he seems to have just vanished is that the Luna del Lupo failed to protect him.

Yet, there’s another thought, and that one is even worse. So bad, in fact, that I raise a fist and knock it against my temple as if it might force the thought out. Because there’s no way that Milo would be reckless enough to sneak out without me—and there’s definitely no way that my wolf wouldn’t have caught that…

Dining room: clear.

Utility room: clear.

Living room: clear—including cleared of all those fucking crystals. I growl so loudly that the picture frames on the walls rattle.

Backtracking to the front door, I discover that Milo’s boots are also missing. Immediately, I’m battle ready.