Tuna Mayo Wrap
Rowan
The wide neck of Milo’s hoodie means that my hand rests flat against his soft and warm skin. I should let go; manhandling him like this isn’t necessary, or appropriate. I don’t.
Instead, as if adhered, my thumb settles over the trigger point in the muscle by his shoulder blade and I rub small concentric circles over it.
Milo surrenders into my custody. A quiet breath spills from between his lips, and he releases the tension he’s carried since we met.
It’s a heady feeling. One that must work like an anaesthetic because, while I’m cognizant that this is crossing a professional line, it’s as if I no longer have the freedom of autonomy.
I’m aware of the lies I tell myself: he’s an asset under a lot of stress, and I’m responsible for his wellbeing; he’s crucial to the survival of all Romulan werewolves; he’s a liability if he’s strung out.
And yet… round and round the pad of my thumb works the knot it’s found.
In part because Milo’s responding with submission and that’s like a drug to the alpha in me, but also because I think it might take an act of god to force me to break physical contact with him when just this small amount of it feels like it does.
Until we enter the kitchen and turn on the bright overhead lights. The fluorescence works like daylight on a vampire.
I release him from my grip as if burned, and he twists away as if scalded.
Wordlessly, we each retreat to opposite ends of the large kitchen and find something to immediately distract ourselves with. Milo pulls open the pantry doors and steps inside, and I lean against the counter in front of the window.
Of all the missions—and of all the Packages—never once has it been like this.
The sudden vibrating alert of an incoming message cuts through the storm of thoughts that cloud my mind. I welcome the distraction.
Guardian:
The Dogs are in their kennel.
The relief that my unit made it to their safe house in Rome is short-lived. Despite knowing that they’re together, that they’ll have prepared for every contingency on the flight over there, it doesn’t alleviate the very real stress that clenches my heart inside an invisible fist.
This is, hands down, the most high-stakes mission we’ve ever conducted, and not only are we not whole—not pack—but we’re operating in the General’s home city without his knowledge or permission.
We’re all also sleep-deprived. Milo’s probably had the most sleep of any of us.
I huff a quiet chuckle at the memory of him calling his astral travel a dreamscapade. Maybe he’s not that rested either.
I scroll on from Guardian to the next text message thread, looking for anything that will help cut thoughts of Milo off at the pass.
Admiral Guerrieri is still waiting on an update from me, and I won’t be able to stall him for much longer.
Operation Tempo needs to yield results—fast—because if he issues new mission orders before they’re done, then the unit’s unauthorised rules of engagement will be uncovered, and—
“Shit!” Milo’s loud curse interrupts my train of thoughts.
Immediately, my head snaps up, and I repocket my phone. Milo has his finger sucked into his mouth, full red lips sealed tightly around the tip.
Averting my gaze, I regard the chaotic state of my kitchen.
Two wholewheat tortillas are laid out directly on the counter, one already opened can of tuna is set aside, and another—its lid partially raised—precariously balances on the edge.
There’s also a bag of pre-cut salad leaves, a jar of mayonnaise, a large spoon, and a discarded can opener…
leaving no doubt as to what just happened.
My eyes cut back to Milo, who pulls his finger from his mouth, scrutinises it, flaps his hand a little, then sucks it back in.
Straightening, I close the distance between us. “Ye okay, Pup?”
Without waiting for a response, I wrap my larger hand over Milo’s to pry the injured finger from between his lips. Like a mantra, I tell myself to focus on the wound.
“Stupid can lids. I do it every time.” His laugh is self-deprecating, and I feel my brow sink lower. Milo reclaims his hand from mine, and frowns in kind.
“Anyway…” His cheeks flooded pink, he turns and tears off a sheet of paper towel that he uses to encase his finger, before resuming his… construction.
Abject horror freezes me in place.
Firstly, not since I was old enough to assert myself territorially has anyone ever usurped me in the kitchen.
Even Mum knows better, and she’s our omega matriarch.
Yet this waifish human, having brazenly raided my pantry right under my nose, is preparing lunch without a care in the world and with a wiggle in his hips.
Which leads smartly into the second issue: I hate tuna. We only keep it stocked because Thriller insists, and he only does that so he has an excuse to goad me into a fight of the Gaelics. My frown deepens further.
Milo turns his head to shoot me a small smile, and anything I might have been about to say dies on my tongue.
“Since I turned up unannounced on your doorstep early yesterday morning, you’ve been really hospitable: the brunch, last night with dinner, and again with the iced coffees and breakfast wrap this morning. Not to mention that you saved my life. Probably.”
He wrestles the lid the rest of the way off the can, then promptly upends the compressed contents directly onto the tortilla, before then scraping out any remaining chunks of the devil’s fish with the spoon that I know he will also use for the mayonnaise.
“So, I wanted to do something back—to say thank you—for taking me in and keeping me safe.”
I clench my jaw, but my expression softens. “Milo…”
“I mean, I can’t cook like you can,” he continues, spooning a heaped dollop of mayo onto the pile of solid tuna chunks. “But I’m capable of a tuna mayo wrap.”
I swallow. “You don’t have to…”
Milo rapidly shakes his head. “No, I know. I want to.”
Those pleading grey eyes, impossibly wide, suck me in like a riptide off the Berwickshire coast. Caught in it, I give a single, tight nod, and Milo’s smile stretches so wide it lights up his whole face.
Turning then, he busies himself with trying to stretch and wrap the tortilla around the putrid fish. While he works, he gives another one of those excited whole-body shimmies, and the hem of his cropped hoodie swings wildly. Dangerously.
I retreat back to the airy space across the kitchen in front of the window that overlooks the suburban lawn outside.
Milo the victorious draws near, fingers clenched around the rustic and lumpy food item that he proffers my way. I scan the counter for the plates… but there aren’t any.
“Thanks,” I manage through a terse smile.
Maybe if I ask for one, when he turns around, I could accidentally drop it on the floor?
Milo all but pushes the wrap into my reluctant hold, and rather than the smell of canned fish, my wolf fixates on the scent of fresh and crisp apples.
Without standing on ceremony, he takes the world’s biggest bite—eyes rolling back in their sockets while he chews—before he then nods at me in encouragement.
My mouth floods with saliva.
“Yer the alpha leader of the Dogs of War for fuck’s sake, ye can eat a mouthful of tuna mayo wrap. Ye won’t die,” I scold myself.
Under Milo’s watchful eye, I slowly bring the wrap close, all the while reminding myself of the specialised training I’ve received that has prepared me for missions in high-stress environments—and hold my breath.
The tortilla is soggy, the brine having soaked through, and my horrified gaze darts to Milo. His half-devoured wrap is held between us, saturating the air and overriding the delicate scent of apples. He didn’t drain the canning liquid?
Committed, and under duress, I bite through the mush, and the severed mouthful weighs heavily on my tongue. Briefly, I contend with the idea of just swallowing it straight down, but the thought of regurgitating it later induces a cold sweat. Reluctantly and feverishly, I chew.
My eyes flit wildly around the room, looking for any possible means of exfiltration. They land on the tap. A tap filled with water. So close, yet so far.
I choke the masticated lump down, then glance back at Milo, then back at the tap.
A sudden flash of bright purple streaks through my peripheral vision.
I snap to attention, turning bodily to stare out the window.
My wolf emits a low warning growl as he pushes forward to scan the hedges that line the lawn.
Wrap dumped on the side, I’m clear through the house and at the front door in a matter of seconds.
Time Guy.
My hand is already on the doorknob, when Milo’s long fingers—damp with tuna fish juice—wrap around my other wrist. “Wait. Ranger.”
My codename, spoken in Milo’s hushed and panicked voice, viscerally travels through me.
Waiting, I find Milo with mayonnaise at the corners of his lips, and eyes filled with concern. “You can’t go out there without me. Magpie: remember?”
Something odd coils through my insides. Probably the tuna.
It’s touching that he’s learned enough about how we operate in this short time to know to switch to using codenames, and to use them to convey clear meaning. Not just that, but when his first thought is to protect a pack member—even if it puts him at risk—he’s acting exactly like a Dog of War.
I pause to assess our situation. We’re alone here.
Milo’s mine to keep safe, but he’s the one in possession of the Luna del Lupo.
If I engage the enemy, he’s going to come with me, and we don’t have enough intel on the enchantment to know if whatever protective factor occurred yesterday is a one-time deal, or not.
I nod at Magpie and reset our hands so I have his firmly inside mine, then tuck him in close behind me. He’s tall for a human, but I’m werewolf tall. Only when I have him fully shielded do I crack open the door and let my wolf come forward, leaning into his heightened senses.
There’s nothing to be found. If I could shift fully, then I’d have an even greater capacity, but this is suburbia at midday, and I can tell Time Guy hasn’t frozen our neighbourhood like he did the coffee shop. Shifting is too risky.
I wait a moment or two for the gentle breeze to blow the other way, in case he’s hiding up-wind, but there’s still nothing. If the purple flash wasn’t Time Guy, what was it? If it was him, how is he tracking Milo? And most importantly, how is he able to vanish without a trace?
Turning my head halfway back to Magpie, and with a low voice, I command, “My bag is packed and under my bed. Go get it.”
He doesn’t move, but tightens his grip on my hand.
Milo isn’t a werewolf, but he is supernatural and should still respond to my alpha command. I let a little more authority slip through this time. “Magpie. Bag. Now.”
Milo’s eyes refocus and he nods, but still, he doesn’t move.
“Quickly.”
This time, he does, long legs easily climbing the stairs three at a time.
I pat down my pockets, checking for both my phone and keys. With my wolf still forward, constantly scanning for any immediate danger, I disable the alarm on the car. The confirmatory bleep is loud.
Magpie’s hurried footsteps thud on the floor above me, then comes the heavy scrape of my case as he drags it out from under the bed.
My wolf remains focused on the external environment. How do I protect Milo from an enemy I can’t fight unless he’s right there with me?
Magpie charges back down the stairs, and without thinking too closely about it at all, I retake possession of his hand. I need him close. Thankfully, he doesn’t resist, and his cold fingers link with mine.
Keeping my voice low, I whisper, “We’re going shopping for that hairbrush ye wanted.”
“Now?”
“Now. Truck’s unlocked.” Magpie’s grip tightens once again. “Ye going to stay as close as ye can to my left side, keep ye head down, and yer aiming for the middle passenger door. Got it.”
The echo of Magpie’s rapid heartbeat is clear through our joined hands.
“Words, Pup.”
“Yes,” he acknowledges, but it’s quiet. Unsure.
Maintaining a direct line of sight on our intended destination, I squeeze his hand in reassurance. “Ye remember that it’s my job to keep ye safe? I’m not going to let anything happen to ye, not on my watch. Do ye trust me, Magpie?”
He blows out a long breath. “Yeah, Ranger. I trust you.”
There’s that odd curling and coiling sensation in my gut again. “On three, Magpie. Shut the door behind ye.”
“One,” he says, and I risk a quick look over my shoulder to find a steely determination written over Milo’s face.
“Two,” I add.
And on the next breath, Magpie has neatly stepped into my left flank, and it’s as if that space had been designed with him in mind.
Together, we evacuate the house.
In a few long strides, I have the truck door pulled open, and then both of us are safely inside.
Neither of us speak.
Our combined heavy breaths are loud in the otherwise silent truck. Then Milo releases a soft burst of laughter.
My smile is indulgent. “Ye good, Magpie?”
His answering smile is wide.
Refocusing, I give him our mission orders. “We need to move. My laptop’s in my case. Ye’ve got approximately two hours to get us an exact address for a direct descendant. We should arrive in three.”
I hold his gaze until I’m sure he understands, before climbing through to the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
Magpie offers me his three-fingered Scout’s salute when our gazes lock in the rearview mirror.