11. Take A Seat, Pup
Take A Seat, Pup
Milo
The inside of their house is as spartan and void of life as the outside.
There are no paintings or artworks on the walls, which are all varying shades of white and cream.
Undoubtedly, the staircase straight ahead leads to the upper floor, and the closed door beside it probably to the basement.
Gory images from that serial killer TV show—the one who likes the Saran wrap—swirl through my mind.
Are they going to bundle me up and keep me down there?
I cut my eyes left, then right, but I’m entirely surrounded by werewolves. Before I can run for it, they funnel me into a spacious living room where a small breakfast table is set in front of the window, and a luxurious leather sofa set that seats six fills the rest of the space.
From behind, the burly Scot drops a large hand onto my shoulder and steers me to the centre of the sofa. “Take a seat, Pup.”
The leather-on-leather combo of my jacket against the cushions is loud, and it squeaks out my agitation for everyone to hear as I twist and turn to track each man as they move around the room.
“Change of outfit, Guardian?” asks one of the two men who’d arrived later. He speaks just like Dick Van Dyke did in Mary Poppins, and it takes every bit of willpower I have not to blurt out, “Chim chim cher-ee.”
Nerves. It’s nerves. I suck my lower lip between my teeth and chew it.
“Wouldn’t help us maintain a low profile if there were reports of a man matching my description—bleeding heavily from a wound in his arm—circulating through the neighbourhood, would it?” Guardian responds, squeezing to stand behind a sofa chair.
“Smart to go for compression wear. Have ye healed yet, or do ye need me to look at it?” When he asks, the red-headed alpha’s eyes glow more amber and turn more almond-shaped. I know werewolves can switch their forms, of course, but knowing it and seeing it are two different experiences.
It’s not just the striking change in his features that captures my interest. Witches don’t receive formal schooling on other supernaturals, as I’m sure they don’t teach about us, but I do know about the importance of pack to a werewolf.
How packs are like our covens—family—and the promotion of their well-being and strength is a point of pride for the… “You’re the pack alpha!”
Those golden eyes dart my way, scanning me with a primal intensity, before returning to their more human state. “Aye, and ye can call me Ranger.”
I smile at that. It’s a good name—suits him. The ease with which they’ve given their names helps me relax. Despite being unorthodox, the Witches Council sent me here to be safe, and really, where’s safer than in the middle of a werewolf pack?
Finally settling on the idea that this will—probably—be okay, I raise my hand, intending to offer it in introduction, when the omega who slid from the garage roof drops into the seat beside me. I hadn’t seen or heard him approach.
Startled, I freeze, and a knowing smirk spreads along his lips.
Clear blue eyes fixed on mine, he settles in so close that our thighs almost touch. He holds his hand out in an impatient grabbing gesture, and a small bottle of hand sanitiser is placed there by the man who sounds like a loveable chimney sweep. Those same blue eyes turn icy cold in an instant.
“Not what I want,” he grits out, smile perfectly in place the whole time.
Oooh, another Italian. Today just gets weirder and weirder.
“You want my laptop, you’ll use it.” The Englishman waits patiently, as if he has all the time in the world, but I can tell from the tense energy that strings between them all that they don’t.
None more so than the dark-haired, broody alpha who was guided to sit in the chair in front of Guardian in much the same way I was steered onto the sofa.
His energy signature is like nothing I’ve seen before; he’s so high strung that he’s almost vibrating out of his seat. Staring at him makes me feel a little nauseous, so I turn my focus back to the omega beside me, who has now traded the bottle of sanitiser for the laptop he wanted.
“Phone,” he snaps, making that same commanding gesture to me.
I look around, unsure if he means me. The laptop’s owner has taken a seat at the breakfast table by the window and is now writing something in a notepad.
Guardian has one hand on the shoulder of the living stick of dynamite that occupies the chair in front of him.
Tuesday leans nonchalantly in the doorway, tossing and catching a lighter.
And when I focus on Ranger, who still clutches that bag of pastries, he nods at me—encouragingly, I like to think.
Leaning slightly, I unzip my jacket pocket and hand my phone over. It’s snatched from my grip, but my protest about his unnecessary passive-aggressive behaviour dies on my tongue when he plugs it in. “Oh, thanks.”
Cold blue eyes map my face, as if trying to ascertain if I’m being genuine or starting shit.
Hurrying to clarify, I add, “I forgot to put it on charge last night, and I’d only just plugged it in when that guy broke into my apartment. I wasn’t thinking when I left, and didn’t bring my—”
“I’m cloning it, not charging it.” He dismisses me in favour of rapidly clicking on various icons on the screen.
Intrigued, I lean closer to watch over his shoulder. I don’t really understand any of what I’m seeing, though.
I pull back, and he glances between me and my phone. “Although, I suppose…” He lifts the phone to show me the screen. “That yes, it’s also charging.”
Unsure what prompted this slight change in his aura—maybe I passed one of the little internet quiz things he’s running on my phone—but also not wanting to let an opportunity to ease things between us all pass me by, I stick out my hand.
“Milo,” I introduce myself.
He glances between my hand and my face, then back to my hand again.
“Bear,” he says.
Such a short and simple word, except there’s that something about him again. As if he’s anticipating—no, daring me to comment on it.
“Bear. I always wanted a cool name.”
Bear doesn’t comment further, instead he retracts his hand and turns his gaze to his pack. Interestingly, he looks first to Guardian, not Ranger.
“Lieutenant Alfie Beckett,” the Englishman offers his name, instead but he pronounces it left-en-ant.
There’s something so proper about it that I can’t help but sit up straight.
Of course these are military werewolves, why didn’t I see that before?
They’re all insanely fit and healthy, and a small group of alphas all together—none of them local—living in a house that’s clearly not a home but a… What did Tuesday call it? A Nest.
Suddenly incredibly self-conscious, I raise my hand and press my fingertips against my temple. But then, wait, is that the American way? These wolves are all British. Okay, not all, because Guardian is definitely American, Tuesday’s Australian, and Bear, I’m pretty sure, is Italian.
I tuck in a few fingers like I’ve seen on TV shows.
From the chair in the corner, the wolf whose energy swings more wildly than a barn door in a hurricane claps his hands, stomps his feet, and hollers with laughter. “I like him,” he says, raking his dark-green eyes over me. “Cute, too.”
Ranger takes a step between us, partially obscuring my view. A growl crawls up his throat, low and menacing. A warning. It drags the hairs on the back of my neck up with it.
The other wolf only laughs harder.
“Ah, come on, Ranger,” he presses. “I couldn’t fight those other witches, not like I needed, so maybe I could f—”
Guardian clips him around the back of the head. “Enough, Thriller. You, me, basement. Let’s go.”
Thriller—an apt name—jumps up and twirls around in his seat, all in one motion. He comes face to face with Guardian’s unimpressed expression and folded arms. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
He stretches out his neck, but in that way I’ve seen people do before they fight, and suddenly all that anxiety from earlier this morning returns full force. My heart pounds so hard in my ribcage that the force of it echoes in my skull, and sweat makes the palms of my hands clammy.
“Baby bird looks about ready to fly the Nest,” pipes up Lieutenant Alfie Beckett from his perch.
Ranger’s concerned face fills my field of vision, brow pulled low over hazel eyes. Instinctively, I lean back. Maybe that’s not concern at all, but murderous intent. Suddenly, I’m no longer sure of anything.
Ranger sets the bag of pastries on the low coffee table beside where he now squats. “Milo?”
I focus on his lips.
“Ye were sent here for safety, aye? It’s just that we weren’t expecting ye, and this isn’t the best time for us. A mission went south earlier, and none of us have had a chance to decompress yet. But yer safe here. Even Thriller is harmless. Mostly.”
“Ah, I see what this is,” Thriller pipes up, climbing from his chair. “In the words of James, chapter four, verse two: you desire, and you do not have…”
Another rumbled growl bubbles from deep inside Ranger’s chest, and he closes the distance to Thriller until they’re standing toe to toe.
“…And so you murder,” Thriller finishes, all but spitting that last word in Ranger’s face.
I expect the pack alpha to snap. To force the other alpha to his knees—punch him, headbutt him, anything to subdue him for his outrageous insubordination—and I expect it because it’s what I’ve always been told by other witches.
That werewolves are brutish savages with a penchant for rage and an overflowing pot of violence. But that’s not what happens.
From his seemingly innocent spot in the doorway, Tuesday leans forward and calls out. “Oi, you bible-toting cunt.”
There’s a loaded silence, until on the next collective breath, all hell breaks loose.
Thriller lunges for Tuesday, who ducks and backs out of the room.
Guardian, hot on Thriller’s tail, grabs him by the back of his neck, and Tuesday opens the basement door.
Before he can punch clear through it, Guardian all but pushes him down the stairs, and Tuesday slams the door shut behind them.
Dramatically dusting his hands off, he re-enters the room.
Ranger, having not moved from his spot, and with a quiet and measured voice, informs him, “Ye owe Guardian for that.”
“Oh, for fucks’ sake, mate. You having me on? I’ll let him turn next time we have a guest, then, shall I?”
“Get the tally from Delilah, Tuesday. Then do yerself a favour, and shut the fuck up.”
Tuesday stalks over to Delilah… Oh. Left-en-ant Alfie Beckett is Delilah.
I watch, fascinated, as Tuesday then tacks a large piece of Kraft paper to the bare expanse of the living room wall. “What’s that?”
In that very Dick Van Dyke way he has about him, Delilah informs, “It’s the number of favours we all owe Guardian for managing our… eccentricities.”
Tuesday, having pinned the tally up and marked another strike in the column under his name, strides out of the room, snatching up the bag of pastries as he goes.
The wake of silence his absence leaves enables the unmistakable noise of a fight to carry through the floorboards from the basement below us. I look down at my feet, as if I might be able to see the pair.
“Never ye mind that.” Ranger’s brogue draws my attention
He drags the chair Thriller and Guardian just vacated closer.
“As I was saying, we’ve had an aggravating morning and we’re all jet lagged to boot.
So, while they recover and recharge, yer going to tell us the story of neeps and tatties, Milo.
From the beginning. And yer not going to leave a single thing out, ye hear? ”