Tactical Retreat
Rowan
I lick my lips, pausing with the bag of sugar suspended just above the bowl of flour. Apples—and the faint tingle from our kiss.
The speed with which Milo came around from his spell cast was startling, and it’d caught me off guard.
He’d been in it for hours. Hours. Each one of them painfully slow. I’d counted every breath, my wolf vigilantly tracked each heartbeat, and my hands never once loosened their hold on his legs.
When I told Milo I’d do anything to increase the chances that he stayed safe during a cast, I meant it, but I didn’t know what to expect. Not really. Our proximity had been… intimate, and yet my wolf had demanded we get closer still, that the space between us was too great.
Milo had been specific about the crystal remaining upright between us, however, so I’d fought my wolf on this point every minute of all three of those long hours.
By the time Milo ended the cast, when he returned, I was exhausted in a way I don’t remember ever having been before.
One of the things that makes werewolves such great military personnel is that our two forms can share energy between them.
While the human sleeps, the wolf remains alert, and vice versa, meaning we appear to never rest, and can often achieve twice as much as non-werewolf soldiers.
But never has a mission taxed both me and my wolf as much as this one does, and technically, I’m responsible for just one witch.
One specific witch.
I pour the sugar for the dough by eye. Mostly because I’m not yet sure that I know what it is I’m baking.
Our kiss did cement one thing in my mind, though—I’ve fallen for Milo. Somewhere between discovering the waifish man sitting on my doorstep a couple of days ago and that kiss, I’ve caught feelings. And that couldn’t be more of a disaster.
Which is why I’d tactically retreated to the sanctuary of my kitchen when I came, quite literally, face to face with the overwhelming odds that were stacked against me.
With the dry ingredients now mounded high, I add a splash of vanilla to a couple of beaten eggs, then into a copper pan, I drop half a stick of butter. While I watch the yellow puddle expand, I contemplate what these feelings mean—for me, for Milo, and for my missions.
The agitation I’d experienced when Milo had joked that if the spell went awry he could become stuck in a fold in the fabric of time isn’t an experience I want to repeat. Ever.
This is why I’d always sworn off having a significant other—a partner. Every Dog in this pack takes risks with their lives every day. Even right now, as I pour melted butter into what I recognise to be cookie dough, Bear and Delilah are risking theirs for the sake of Operation Tempo.
Magpie shouldn’t be any different—but he is. Absolutely he is.
I’d had to bite my tongue at one point to stop from pleading with him not to cast his spell.
From arguing that we’d find another way, or suggesting that he wait for the outcome of Bear’s mission, to demanding—forbidding him, even—from doing something that would put him at risk.
And none of these things are good things.
Slowly, I fold the flour and sugar into the eggs and butter until they bind together.
What’s always made me good at what I do, what makes me perfect to lead the Dogs, is that I’m trusted to utilise each member’s unique abilities without personal affections clouding the vision of the mission.
When Milo had kissed me, when he’d pressed himself flush against me, every single one of those defining traits and features flew out of the window.
I’d been so flooded with relief that it was over and he was back safely, that I’d reflexively pulled him closer.
My only thoughts had been about him, but the Dogs depend on me to be there for them.
When I’m with Milo, my loyalties are divided.
Even now, as I rifle through the pantry for chocolate chips—white and dark—my wolf is listening to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom directly above us.
Milo probably hates me after how I left him standing there. He’d be justified, and I hate myself for doing that.
I pause, the two bags of chocolate on the counter in front of me… Is this why I’m baking cookies that follow the taste profile of his favourite iced coffee?
I huff out a sardonic chuckle. Even subconsciously, my actions are guided by my need to appease Milo.
Still, I upend the packets because Milo has an incurable sweet tooth.
Then, I turn the dough out onto the countertop and divide it into individual cookies that I space out on a baking sheet, before sliding them into the oven.
23:37. I set the timer, and clear away the mixing bowls and spoons into the dishwasher.
Bear and Alfie should be wrapping up.
Impatient, I place a call to Guardian, and while it connects, I cycle through the cameras that govern the perimeter of the Nest.
Since his brief appearance at lunch, Janus has been suspiciously absent.
The longer he manages to avoid the Dogs’ efforts to track him down, the more I worry about what he might be planning.
He clearly has a way of tracking Milo’s location, and Janus won’t give up when Milo poses the only threat to his plans for revenge.
“Ranger?” Guardian answers.
“SitRep.”
“Bear and Delilah are still dark; they have seventeen more minutes before comms live.”
“Everyone else?”
Guardian exhales, and there’s a muffled scratching sound, as if he’s dragging a hand over his stubble. “Tense as fuck. Packs don’t do well separated, you know that.”
I feel that like a kick to the gut. “Yeah.”
“How’s Magpie?”
“Holding up well, all things considered. Heard from the General’s Office yet?” I ask, unusually nervous for the answer.
“They declined my request for a unit.”
“Fuckers.” But there’s a moment of selfish relief—will he stay? “What was their reason?”
“The official line? ‘In the current climate, we cannot spare resources for celestial matters.’”
“What a load of bollocks. We’re the only unit they’ve shared that intel with. They’ve got the whole military available.”
“Mhm.”
But I know that sound. “Yer going solo, aren’t ye?”
“Tsk. Not until after Bear’s debrief.”
“If ye can wait until we’ve nailed these missions, Guardian, the Dogs’ll come with ye.”
“While I appreciate that, Ranger—and I might be calling in all those favours— I’ve already waited too long.”
I hang my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Yer going to be missed.”
“I have to do this.”
“Aye. I know. We’d all do the same in yer shoes.” There’s a lengthy pause on the line, and I check on the cookies.
“You’re not the only one pissed at me,” he admits, albeit quietly.
“I’m not pissed at ye, Guardian. I’m wondering who the fuck is going to fill yer spot.”
“Tsk. I think you already know.”
My brow lowers in thought—I do?
“So, who’d ye manage to piss off inside of twenty-four hours.”
Guardian’s dark chuckle drifts down the line. “Anna.”
Janus’s PA? “How’d ye do that?”
“Thriller had an interaction with one of her night staff.”
I smile. Thriller’s a menace.
Guardian continues. “But in her complaint, she gave up some extra intel that I thought might be useful to your Magpie.”
My Magpie? I open my mouth to rebuke him for that, then decide against it. The less the Dogs know, the less ribbing they’ll give me over it. They can be… relentless. “Oh, aye?”
“She reports that in the last half a century, Janus has become gradually more distant, and in line with that, the management of their department has become harder. More and more tasks have fallen to her in his absence. While the department of Transitions still meets deadlines, missed meetings mean that the seasons have gradually slipped into the wrong months, and because he pissed off Fortuna, she’s reduced their trade.
This reduction in luck translates to the general passage of time becoming more noticeable to humans, and there’s a corresponding increase in the number of hardship complaints. ”
The inner political workings of the Office of Time are beyond my scope of interest. “I don’t see how this—”
“Because Anna Perenna is fed up with doing Janus’s job without the perks and recognition. With new management comes new opportunities, and given Magpie’s abilities, he’d make a good liaison between the Dogs and the Office of Time. Just a parting recommendation.”
“Guardian—” But the timer on the oven pings loudly.
“I’ll miss your food, Ranger. And as an Ethiopian-American, I don’t say that lightly.”
“Double choc chip cookies aren’t ye thing.”
Guardian chuckles once more. “No. You’re right. They’re not yours either, so my guess is they’re for Magpie.”
“Ye’ve got less than five minutes until comms live.”
“You’re still my CO, so I’ll let you call that, but as you’re also about to not be my CO, then I’m going to suggest you fix whatever you did that means you’re stress-baking at midnight. Magpie’s a Dog, Ranger.”
“He—”
“The first few minutes of meeting him, you remember what Bear did?”
I remove the baking sheet from the oven and set the cookies on a cooling rack. “He took his phone to clone it.”
“He did, and then Magpie…”
“Shook his hand.” I finish his sentence.
“Bear would sooner stab someone than shake their hand.”
Exhaling, I scrub my hand over my face.
I fucked up with Milo, but there’s no way I’m admitting that to Guardian. “Two minutes.”
“Two minutes.”
“I want a full debrief.”
“The moment I have it, you’ll have it.”
“And Guardian…”
“Yeah. I know. Thanks, Ranger.” Guardian ends the call.
I brace my fists on the counter, and inhale. Immediately, my wolf switches focus from his pack to his… Milo.
The shower is still running. I frown. That’s a very long shower.
Pushing closer to the surface, my wolf easily determines the steady patter of the water from any other ambient sounds as he searches for Milo’s vitals. What if Milo passed out after his spell cast? What if he hit his head, and is up there bleeding in the stall while I cower in the kitchen?
Guardian’s words run through my mind. “He’s a Dog, Ranger.”
If Milo is a Dog, then I wouldn’t snoop on him with my wolf from another room; I’d let him sleep it off or go kick in the bathroom door.
My wolf emits a low and rumbling growl that vibrates my bones—he can’t find a heartbeat.
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?”