Don’t Go Back To 1978
Milo
Neither of us speak. Which is awkward because I’m still perched on his lap, albeit practically off the end of his knees because I got myself a little overworked earlier.
Not wanting to come off as needy, I crane my neck to watch Senora Tiempo sashay between the tables as she makes her way back along the winding promenade, and surreptitiously slide back onto my own chair.
Our host flirts with various guests as she passes by, stroking them with those ridiculously over-the-top dyed ostrich feathers that, somehow, are back on top of her head. Eventually, however, she reaches the small stage and steps up to raucous applause.
When the cheers give way to the house band, Rowan clears his throat. “Don’t go back to nineteen seventy-eight, Milo. Stay… with me.”
His question—that was a question, right?—causes everything within me to instantly go to war with itself. Stunned, my mouth hangs open, and I scan his face for anything to help me unknot the giant ball of yarn that my racing thoughts are tying my brain into.
All at once, I imagine a life where Rowan and I are together, another where we co-exist in the world and check in twice a year over secure emails, a third where Rowan resets his timeline and we never meet, and another still where I reset my timeline, and when we do eventually meet I’m in my eighties, like Ethel.
Nausea fuelled by tequila riots in my stomach, and a sudden bone-deep exhaustion has me lowering my head until it meets the fancy white tablecloth.
A few seconds of further mental torment pass, in which I’m acutely aware of the opening verse of “Something,” by The Beatles. Rowan’s hand, ever so gently, rubs up and down my spine. It helps—a little.
When he next speaks, it sounds like he’s right by my ear, and that Scottish brogue, delivered in a calm and dulcet tone, travels straight to my heart.
“I’m sorry, Milo. I shouldn’t have put that pressure on ye.
Ye have the right to choose as ye wish, and I’ll do my best to support whatever that might be.
But there’s something I need to tell ye, and if I don’t, I’ll regret forever. ”
He pauses, and I can hear the size of the inhale he needs to fuel his words. I scrunch my eyes shut to guard myself against their impact.
“Yesterday, I made the biggest mistake of my life.” His breathy laugh is sardonic.
“See, ever since I was a wee lad, I’ve known how my life was going to turn out.
I knew what school I was going to go to, which military academy, which training regiment I’d get drafted to even.
When my wolf presented as a pack leader, it mapped my future as a CO, and I rose through the ranks—and I rose fast. I’m bloody good at what I do. ”
With every word, my heart sinks further through my soul. How can I compete with thirty years of such certainty?
Yet… while his words punch metaphorical holes in me, his hand doesn’t stop massaging reassurance and comfort into my core. And right now, his touch is the only thing preventing me from drowning in sadness.
“And then I got recalled from leave on Readiness Level Two. Do ye know what that is, Milo?”
My forehead still firmly pressed on the table, I roll it side to side—no.
“It means be ready, because within five days shit’s going to get real.”
I can’t help it, I giggle-snort. “No it doesn’t.”
“Okay, that’s not the textbook definition, but it is the real-world definition. The thing is, I’d assumed—when I got recalled—that it would be the Operation that risked turning my life upside down, but it wasn’t.”
Curious, I allow my head to loll to the side so I can see Rowan’s face.
“It was the mission objective himself—the Magpie—who flew onto my porch one morning and changed my life forever.”
I close my eyes again, not sure I can watch his mouth shape the words that will finally break my heart.
“You’re too much, Milo.”
“We haven’t been together all that long, why would you think we’d get married?”
“This dinner is really important to my career, if you could just be less… you.”
“Ye tore up my playbook, Milo.”
And there it is. My stomach flips over.
“From the moment ye walked through the door, ye were different. And I tried to force ye into the structure I was used to… That was my first mistake.”
My heart stutters, and I crack open an eye. Rowan’s expression is serious, yet gentle.
“Ye needed yer own structure, it just took me a while to realise. I thought treating ye like all the other Dogs was the right thing, so every time something would happen that showed me I needed to treat ye different… I thought it was a bad thing.”
He hesitates for a second, then switches from stroking the length of my spine to firmly holding the back of my neck. Something in the grip is so possessive, so total, that I can’t help but yield to it. I exhale softly.
“But yer the very opposite of a bad thing, Milo. I don’t know if ye heard Senora Tiempo allude to me having something of value? Something precious.”
When I nod—because I did and it confused me, so I’d really like an answer—Rowan smiles. It’s a beautiful sight. He’s so gorgeous… the way those little lines crinkle the edges of his eyes.
“Werewolves usually mate with their own. I’m sure ye know that?”
My face sours at the turn this conversation is taking.
I did not expect that. And I really don’t want to talk about it.
Generally, I’m not the type to yuck someone else’s yum, but in this case, I’m going to make an exception.
The thought of Rowan mating another werewolf gives me major yuck. Capital letters YUCK.
“But did ye know we don’t have to? Did ye know that in exceptional circumstances, the wolf can choose a non-wolf mate?”
Uncertain and uneasy, but also now filled with a sudden and fizzy bubbling energy, I push myself upright. Rowan’s hand remains on the back of my neck.
“It’s rare, Milo, because that non-wolf has to be the perfect complement to the wolf. They have to be intelligent…”
His hand lowers to the junction of my neck and shoulder, and he rubs his thumb in circles there.
It reminds me of earlier, on the roof, when he licked a stripe up my neck.
I give a whole-body shudder, and Rowan smiles again.
And this time, it reminds me of the kind of smile someone gives when they have a secret they’re just waiting for the right moment to deliver.
“There’s no scent gland, ye see, so the non-wolf has to have natural pheromones that appeal to the wolf. I love apples, by the way.”
I do too, but I don’t get what apples have to do with mates. I chew on my bottom lip. The action draws Rowan’s gaze, and he slides his thumb up to pry it loose.
“The non-wolf has to be brave; I’m talking the type of courageous that even the General’s Office dreams of, because my lifestyle isn’t for the faint of heart.”
Exasperated, and maybe possibly a tiny bit regretful of the speed I drank those margaritas at, I admit, “I don’t understand…”
“Ye, Milo. I’m describing who ye are to me. My wolf has chosen ye as his mate, and if ye’d do me the honour of forgiving me my earlier mistake, then I’m telling ye—promising ye—that in any future life, and on any possible timeline, I’d always choose ye.”
Everything grinds to a halt.
The stars no longer twinkle overhead, the candles on the table between us no longer flicker, and the waves in the ocean no longer tumble on the shore.
How can I be his mate? He’s a werewolf, a wonderful one, and he must have a mate out there somewhere.
“But…” I begin. “Aren’t you given mates at birth?”
Rowan chuckles, his eyes doing that crinkling thing. He’s the only vibrant thing here, it seems. “They teach ye that at witch school?”
I shrug.
“Naw, Milo. It’s not like that. Our wolves will be guided to some above others; we call it an affinity.
It’s like… a deep tug toward someone that ye can’t always explain.
But even still, there has to be all those points of compatibility I was telling ye about.
So even with another wolf, if something’s missing, there’ll be no bond formed. ”
My sigh of relief is loud, and Rowan’s returning smile is indulgent.
“But once the wolf finds that compatibility with another, that’s the bond that’s promoted.
Anything else that may or may not have been just ceases to exist. So, ye’d never need to worry about someone else trying to take that spot from ye.
If ye choose to be my mate, Milo, that’d be us sorted. But it is that… yer choice.”
Shuffling in my seat, I turn to face him, but the intimacy of the conversation and the hope that simmers inside me, coupled with his proximity, make it hard to maintain eye contact.
I fiddle absently with one of the many pocket flaps of his combat pants.
“What, erm… what does it mean? Exactly. Being a werewolf mate?”
Quietly, so as not to disturb this private bubble that surrounds us, Rowan says, “Ye’d officially become part of my pack. Ye’d be my family.”
Family. A slow and steady smile blooms over my whole face and is reflected in Rowan’s golden eyes. I wouldn’t just gain a mate—I’d gain a family. “Are both your parents still alive?”
“Aye, Pup. Alive and well, along with my three siblings and two nieces. Not to mention extended family, and the Dogs. Fair warning though, my sister Riley already knows ye exist, because it was she who chewed me out… Got me to see sense.”
My smile now splits my face. Three siblings and one of them is already Team Milo. Riley—I commit her name to memory, and make a mental note to bring her a gift pack of shampoo and conditioner. Oh, but wait, she probably lives in Scotland. Everyone lives in Scotland.
I dip my chin to hide my face, and tuck the longer strands of hair behind my ear, catching my fingers in my tunnel piercing. “Where… Where would…? Do you live there? In Scotland? When you’re not on a mission?”
Rowan’s big finger hooks under my chin. “I’m there, because without a mate, they’re my family. But my home, Milo, is wherever my mate is.”