17. Insubordinate Bawbags
Insubordinate Bawbags
Rowan
The taxi rolls to a gentle stop at the end of our driveway, and I’m relieved to see the Yukon parked in front of the garage.
Grabbing the handle of Milo’s backpack from the footwell between us, I heft it up onto the seat.
I didn’t see all of what he packed, because when he dropped to his knees and stretched out long to reach under the bed—arse wiggling high in the air—I occupied myself with setting his kitchenette to rights.
“What ye got in here, Pup? Bricks?”
He rolls his head languidly along the back of the seat and slow blinks. “Hmm?”
Groggily, his gaze floats from my face to the bag, then back up again. “Oh,” he chuckles quietly. “Close. Crystals.”
I huff out a quiet chuckle of my own—of course my chaotic witch packed crystals when I’d clearly instructed him to pack only essentials. When I realise how I just referred to him, I unfasten my seatbelt, climb out, and inhale a big lungful of fresh air.
Under my protection—not mine.
Milo’s slower to exit the taxi; his limbs are laced with tiredness, and I don’t need my wolf to point out his exhaustion. Today, he’s been assaulted twice and effectively kidnapped. By now, he must be running on fumes. He hip-checks the trunk of the taxi on the way past and winces.
Instinct, and years of training, have me furtively checking the neighbourhood while Milo practically drags himself up the garden path. With every lumbering step that our Package takes away from me, there’s a creeping sense of unease. My wolf, it seems, is taking his duty of care seriously.
When I open the door and usher Milo through, the house is quiet. Depositing his bag at the foot of the stairs, I guide him through to the living room where the entire unit is seated in tense silence.
Every werewolf here just learned that if we fail this mission, it’s not just their lives that are forfeit, but their family’s lives too. I owe them more than the few coded messages I sent earlier, I know that, but the hostility Bear’s emitting is my primary focus.
Captain Leo’s family is considered military royalty, just a few steps removed from General Romulus himself, and while Operation Magpie is black ops, we all know there’s very strong chance Bear’s father, Field Marshal Orsini di Anguillara, will have had a missive cross his desk.
Bear’s a nepo baby—not that anyone ever says that out loud, not if they want to keep their tongue—and the old bastard scrutinises every breath Bear takes.
If Papa Bear were to become privy to the intel Milo just uncovered for us, he’d assume tactical command of my unit without hesitation, and that’s the driving force behind Bear’s current level of agitation.
His designation as an omega would be enough to stand Bear down from the fight for survival of all werewolf kind—irrespective of his superb record—and all that stands between him and that fate… is Milo.
Unable to contain it any longer, Bear explodes from the chair he’d been perching on nearest the door.
Guardian makes no move to block him. Wise.
In this mood, Bear would stab you in the spleen first and ask questions later.
Also, Guardian isn’t a werewolf, and Bear’s wolf is currently in the driving seat.
I straighten to full height to block the doorway… and Milo, who’s so close behind me I can feel his hot breaths on the back of my neck. My fingers twitch against the urge to reach back and place a shielding hand on him.
“Don’t put yourself between us, Ranger.” The tendons in Bear’s neck are taut, as he shortens his words and leans more into his Italian heritage than his French one. “I will go through you.”
“Ye’ll sit yer arse down, Captain, and ye’ll ask yer questions in a civilised manner.” I tower over Bear, and the top of his head barely reaches my chest, but it would be a mistake to underestimate him.
“He shook my hand, sir. Looked me dead in the eye and told me he didn’t know about any trinket, nor enchantment, that the General might be looking for.”
And there it is. Bear prides himself on his intellect, and that it was someone outside the unit who uncovered critical intel is akin to pulling the pin from a grenade.
“I know that, Bear, but in Milo’s defence—”
“He’ll speak for himself,” he cuts me off with a growl. “He’s proven well enough that we don’t intimidate him, so he should have no problem explaining this.”
“Erm, I’m happy to talk…” Milo interjects from the entrance hall behind me. “But you do scare me a little…”
“Good.” A positive statement, that does nothing to cool the fire burning within Bear.
“And even if I talk,” Milo continues. “I’m not sure I can really explain.”
It’s not just Bear’s wolf who growls this time; Thriller’s wolf is feeding on the shifting energy.
Dipping my chin, my wolf growls back. A warning.
“Ye insubordinate bawbags. If we weren’t already off the books, I’d have ye court-martialled.” Stepping forward, I come toe-to-toe with Bear. He doesn’t move.
“When ye stand down, soldier, I’ll let Milo lead the debrief.
But yer going to listen, and yer going to listen real good.
What I witnessed this afternoon was an intelligence extraction that even ye couldn’t pull off.
With no mission brief, untrained and unarmed, Milo correctly assessed, profiled, and played whoever that rep from the Office of Time is.
He single-handedly delivered ye the answer to yer own question. ”
Bear arches a blond eyebrow. Bleached, like his buzzcut.
“Ye asked why the General would withhold intel when the threat is against him? Because the threat isn’t just against him.
” My wolf looks through Bear’s manic eyes to the wolf deep within.
I don’t need to use my alpha command, but I do need to make sure he’s hearing me.
“Milo just built yer next mission, and when yer ready for that debrief, ye’ll put a leash on that wolf, and let the Pup talk—without interrupting. ”
Still, Bear doesn’t back down.
“That’d be an order from yer commanding officer.” I send my gaze out wide, to Thriller, then everyone else. “Milo is our Package; he’s under our protection. He needs us to keep him safe, and we need him to find a way to protect the Romulan Bloodline. But we’re not doing it like this.”
Bear clenches his jaw, makes one last ditch effort to lean around me to intimidate Milo, then gives a tight nod.
Without once breaking eye contact, he re-takes his perch position on the edge of the dining chair.
His bouncing leg is the only outward clue that he’s barely containing his wolf.
I remain standing right where I am—the first and last line of defence for Milo.
“First things first, I was on the phone to Admiral Guerrieri when all this happened—he was stonewalling, by the way—and now we know why.” I thumb over my shoulder to Milo.
“Before we share, know that this intel is classified and restricted to this unit. That includes from the General’s Office. If anyone here has a problem with that, ye’d be free to leave the room—and the Dogs—but ye do it now.”
No one moves. Despite Bear’s earlier outburst, the pack have regrouped and refocused. I nod at the restored order.
Finally, I step into the room and move aside to reveal Milo, who waves awkwardly.
Indicating the sofa where he’d sat earlier this morning, I motion for him to take a seat, but like Bear, Milo too, is fidgety.
Guardian shifts to stand opposite him, leaning casually against the wall where his eyes glow with an ever-brighter shade of violet. He’s scanning Milo’s soul, exactly like he did when we first interrogated him, and when he’s ready he gives a nod.
Guardian takes his name from what he is—a guardian angel.
He’s much older than any of us, centuries older, and came up through the ranks of the Celestial Army before wanting more variety.
My unit looks to him in cases like this as if he’s a living lie detector.
He isn’t, but the soul does keep the score.
If Milo’s wilfully withholding truths that would condemn so many people, then his soul would show signs of stress—and that, Guardian can see.
Milo laughs nervously, and it pulls my attention. “So erm, I’ve never debriefed anyone before. Is there a—”
Bear laughs, suddenly throwing his head back and aiming the loud and unhinged sound at the ceiling. Milo jumps in his seat. I clamp my hand down on Bear’s smaller shoulder. Leaning close, I bare my teeth in a snarl.
Thriller whistles, low and provocative. “Set me as a seal upon your heart, a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death. Song of—”
“Solomon: chapter eight, verse six. And I agree,” interrupts Guardian. “But let Milo speak.”
Thriller nods, feigning righteousness by sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers in front of him.
I glare, allowing my wolf forward. The flash of a challenge. I was not making an amorous pledge; I’m just trying to conduct this debrief with just an iota of decorum. Milo’s exhausted and needs rest, and my pack needs feeding. I check my watch… 17:08.
Bear presents his hands in a surrender motion, and Milo begins at the very beginning, with informing the Dogs of War about his preferred iced coffee order.
Already familiar with the events, I watch my pack as they watch him, and one by one they all fall to Milo’s charms. Even Bear.
As someone often sidelined and marginalised for being lesser than by his own family, Milo’s debrief successfully redirects his anger toward a more fitting source—General Romulus himself.
When Milo finishes his story with us arriving safely back at the Nest, he aims a blinding smile my way, then flops back on the sofa and yawns. Loudly.
I can’t help but smile back. Gone is the tension that had seen his shoulders worn like earrings, calm in his lap are the fingers that had widened the rips in his jeans, and at rest is the body that has fended off two magical assaults today.