12. Am I A Hostage?
Am I A Hostage?
Rowan
Delilah, Bear, and I have been questioning Milo nonstop for over an hour. Delilah closed his notebook thirty-seven minutes ago and has been staring out the window for the last twelve. Eight minutes ago, Bear unplugged Milo’s phone and handed it back with a subtle shake of his head—he found nothing.
The Pup is chaotic and clearly needs an adult, but no matter the strength of Delilah’s analytical mind, nor how hard Bear combs through his digital life—no matter which way we turn his story to try and pull it apart—he holds firm.
We want information on the Luna del Lupo, which Milo claims no knowledge of, and he wants to know how we can help protect him from whoever broke into his apartment and threatened to fold him away in the fabric of time.
Milo’s fingers poke and pull at the rips in his dark-grey jeans, a colour that also bathes under his eyes, making them look sunken and small.
They’re not, though—sunken or small—they’re large in proportion to his face, and possess one of the most unique colour combinations I’ve ever seen.
It was the first thing I noticed about him.
They’re grey, yes, but not because of an absence of colour, or like Tuesday’s, which seem undecided between blue and green.
No, Milo’s eyes are made of the most delicate bursts of every possible eye colour known to man.
Deep browns and burnt ambers, sage greens next to lime greens, bright oceanic blues that streak through navy pockets, and all of them are trapped under violet highlights.
Milo’s eyes remind me of those sunburst crystals my sister hung in the twins’ nursery when they were little to scatter sunlight over the walls. Grey, like the crystals that hide all the colours of the rainbow.
As if sensing my gaze on him, Milo rolls his head along the back of the sofa until he finds me. Light from the window glints from his multiple facial piercings.
I divert my attention to Bear, whose fingers tap out his unease on the closed laptop. It doesn’t help that we caught a stray and haven’t been able to conduct our mission debriefing yet. Bear and strays never mix well, something Admiral Guerrieri knows… and yet.
My gaze drifts back to Milo.
Why did the General’s Office send him here? More to the point, why have they still not made contact to explain their reasoning?
My wolf, restless under my skin, feeds on the fractured energy of my pack.
It’s my job to look after them, and I’m not.
Guilt plays through my body to the faint sounds of aggressive sparring from the basement, the quiet crackling and fizzing of Tuesday’s tinkering in the bedroom above, the agitation of Bear’s fingers, and the ravenous growling of Milo’s stomach.
Guardian and Thriller will be done soon, and they’ll need feeding also.
Tuesday stole the croissants I bought, so fuck him, but he’s been left unsupervised too long and having him around the table for lunch will keep him in check.
We can’t afford to blow up another safehouse because he’s uncalibrated.
As if coming to the same conclusion, Bear stands in a rush, startling Milo. Depositing the laptop on the table with a thump earns him a look of disgust from Delilah, but Bear’s already clomping up the stairs.
Simultaneously, the basement door crashes open. When a beaten, bloodied, but smiling Thriller emerges, Milo slides across to the far side of the sofa. Shirtless, and glistening with sweat, Thriller winks at him.
I’m on my feet before Thriller has the chance to verbally convert that offer. That Dog is expressly forbidden from fucking where he sleeps.
“Shower,” I bark, an amount of alpha command slipping through. “Then ice those bruises and patch yerself up.”
Thriller grits his back teeth. It’s not something I like to do, using my pack status to command my unit, but I need to go prepare lunch and I can’t do that if I’m worrying he’ll solicit our Package.
Guardian bumps him forward with his impressive chest when he ascends from the basement behind him, and the pair disappear upstairs without another word.
“Any food allergies, Pup?” I ask, turning back to face Milo.
He scowls as I make my way past the low coffee table, and the sudden image of an angry kitten invades my mind. I bite back the urge to laugh by coughing into my fist instead. Delilah’s sharp gaze bounces between us.
In answer to my question, Milo shakes his head, and as if my hand has a mind of its own, I squeeze his shoulder. “Ye can sit here with Delilah, then. Think on what ye’ve told us while I make us brunch.”
“Brunch,” Milo snorts.
I ignore that. Military men eat brunch. Werewolves eat brunch. And it is brunch, despite the time of day, because that’s the meal that comes after breakfast, which was the last time the Dogs ate.
“So, am I like… a hostage?” he asks.
I tilt my head, trying to work out the reason for his question. I just offered to make him food, why would he think that?
Delilah doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, you’re a hostage. You have the body of an official from the Office of Time decomposing in your flat. If you want our help with that, then you’ll do as you’re told. Stay. Sit. Wait for brunch. Quietly, preferably, like a good hostage.”
Milo worries his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment, and then nods to himself as if he just reached an internal agreement.
“I’ve never been a hostage before. Do I, erm…” He surrenders his phone.
I hurry to push it back down. “Yer not a hostage, Pup. Yer a Package. One we now have to keep safe because—”
“Neeps and tatties,” Milo finishes quietly.
“Aye.”