Dibs On The Ginger
Rowan
“And you’re done hiding? You promise?” Milo asks, pointlessly tucking his hair behind his ears, only for the strong wind to blast it out again.
“Primo, I…” Senora Tiempo spits out an ostrich feather that’s blown into her mouth where we stand back on the roof of the Colonial National Bank. “I gave you my word.”
With a long sigh, she clicks her fingers, and her whole image changes.
Gone is the timeless elegance of sequins and feathers in shades of gold and pink rose, and in their place is a bold pinstripe suit with ivory leather Oxfords.
A slicked-back hairstyle replaces delicate finger curls, and the word Senora no longer seems appropriate.
“I’ve returned you to the exact moment I took you from.
” Time hooks his finger in the sleeve of his suit to check a very nice looking watch.
“In fact, we’re a few minutes early. And then, as promised, I’m returning to the Office of Time.
My first meeting with Anna is in precisely seven minutes.
Long enough to have a coffee and a cigarette—if I leave now. ”
I nod, and tuck Magpie in closer along my side. His fingers sneak up the back of my T-shirt and twist tight hold of the fabric, which reminds me that he refused to wear my bulletproof vest before we left the Mexican resort.
His intuition is to trust the god of Time, despite that their absence led to all this, and mine is to trust my wolf. Milo’s my unclaimed mate, and my unease about being back in the exact spot he almost died in is visceral.
“Will we see each other again?” Milo ventures hesitantly.
“Milo, darling, you couldn’t stop me. I’m in short supply of friends who’ll tell me the truth—even when I don’t want to hear it.” Time checks their watch again. “But I really do need that cigarette. Anna can be… Hasta luego.”
With a soft kiss to the air, the god of Time vanishes, and Milo’s weight against my side increases.
“Ye okay, Pup?”
“Mhm, ’m tired. Today feels like it lasted for a year.” Milo’s head flops onto my chest, and I wrap both arms around him.
“Aye, let’s get off this roof and go home.” He nods and stifles a yawn, and I smile. Milo shuts down quickly when he’s tired. “Magpie, ye need to stay awake long enough to get to the truck or it’s not going to be a convincing extraction.”
Gently prying him from me, I take his hands in mine. His grey eyes are soft and unfocused.
Sliding my hands inside my jacket that he still wears, I unzip the inside pocket and remove a pair of aluminium tactical cuffs. This’ll wake him up. Mindful of his skin, I click them shut around his wrists.
I watch his face as he processes what I just did. There’s no alarm, nor fear, just plain confusion. He tries to pull his arms wide, but not in any meaningful way. Then a slow smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth.
“You haven’t even taken me to dinner, but you’ve already got me in handcuffs…” he quips.
The thought of Milo in handcuffs in that way is a little too much for me and my wolf when we still haven’t claimed him.
Redirecting the temptation before me, I focus him back on the mission. “Thing is, Magpie, ye broke into a bank…”
His mouth forms an “O” shape, and his eyes dart to the bulkhead that houses the roof access then back to me. “My bag…”
“Yer bag?”
“I have a bag filled with crystals and candles. I think it might be on the next floor down because that’s where Janus—”
My wolf cuts him off with a growl. That man’s name is going to be banned, I think. We’ll go back to calling him Time Guy.
“Okay, we’ll go retrieve yer bag, then I’m going to worry about how to get ye out of the building without charges.”
Milo blanches. “They might charge me?”
“Not on my watch, Pup.” I lace our fingers together and kiss his forehead. “I’ve not had a Dog get imprisoned on a mission yet. Thriller’s come close a couple of times, mind ye.”
The diversion in topic seems to work well enough that when I lead him towards the stairwell access, he comes willingly.
When we descend to the top floor, the door is still open, and when we breach, I observe the obliterated ceiling tiles that litter the floor with their debris. My hand on Milo’s tightens.
Two shots were fired at my mate. I leave the casings; incriminating Time Guy in a crime only helps shift focus away from my mate. A mate who, the moment we’re recovered, is taking a course in how to minimise his DNA and biometric trails on a mission.
Milo’s little gasp has my neck snapping in his direction. “My cap…”
“Ye didn’t?” I ask in disbelief.
Tuesday’s distinctive ball cap is half hidden by the divider on the first cubicle.
A quick check-in with my wolf confirms we’re alone, and I leave Milo long enough to take the few steps needed to retrieve it.
Dusting it off, I chuckle to myself when I read the words “Dibs on the ginger” embroidered on the front.
I remember the mission Tuesday bought it on.
Milo has a faint blush on his cheeks. “In my defence, I was in a rush and didn’t actually stop to read what was written on it. I took it from by the door when I put on my boots before I left the Nest.”
I chuckle and tuck it away in my back pocket. “Where do ye think yer bag is?”
He chews his bottom lip while he thinks. “I think maybe over by the balcony. I don’t remember wearing it when I was out there.”
Nodding, I stretch out my hand for him to hold, and again, he gives a level of instant compliance that helps keep my wolf calm. Together, we walk the aisles between the cubicles until we find it, stashed under a desk at the far end.
Hefting it up, I frown. “Please stop carrying around bags of literal bricks.”
Milo snorts, but he also sways in place.
“Come on, Pup. Home.”
His face scrunches up into a ball of disgust, before he whines, “We’re on the twelfth floor. I don’t wanna do all those stairs. I’m tired and I ache and I’ve got sand in places that sand shouldn’t be.”
Chuckling to myself—images of him in the world’s tiniest briefs standing on the beach now at the front of my mind—I approach him slowly and cradle the side of his face in my bigger hand.
He leans into my touch, and I offer him a small smile.
Then I trail that hand around to the back of his head, down his spine, and drop into a squat.
Gripping him tightly at mid-thigh, I hoist him over my shoulder like he’s nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
Milo yelps, then protests, then figures out my intentions and settles. His bound hands once again find a home in the fabric of my T-shirt at my lower back, and together, we descend the concrete stairwell.
“Why’s your butt so firm?” he asks, poking it. “If I weren’t so tired, I’d bite it. Nom nom.”
Chuckling quietly, I ask, “Ye sure yer not a wolf?”
When we’re on the last floor, Milo stiffens in my hold, but I already know what he’s heard. The Jackal Security team must be outside the bathrooms, because the low murmur of their chatter carries easily.
Keeping my voice low, I give Magpie his mission orders.
“Yer a punk graffiti artist, and it’s cans of spray paint in the bag. Make it believable that ye don’t want to be caught, but not too dramatic. We don’t need them trying to help me out by taking ye off me. Got it?”
“Then we’re going home?”
“Nowhere else I want to be more than home with my mate,” I promise him.
“’Kay…” And then he takes a deep breath. “Put me down! I can walk! This is undignified! No grown man wishes to be carried around like this!”
When the voices ahead of us cease, I stifle a chuckle, and push through the fire doors with Milo still in place over my shoulder.
I make sure to look each one of the men in the eye, allowing just enough of my wolf to creep through that they don’t step closer, and don’t slow my stride until we’re back in the main lobby of the bank.
“What ridiculous story did he tell ye?” I bark.
The team leader—his badge reads Matt—hesitates before admitting, “He said was sent by a job agency.”
“Right, because all yer staff are twenty-five-year-olds from temp agencies, are they?”
The muscles in Matt’s neck tic, and there’s a strain around the edges of his eyes. He’s fighting the urge to stand to attention and acknowledge my superiority here. Former military, then.
I nod, but keep moving toward the big glass doors. “This one’s a known tagger who can’t shoot a gun to save his life. Luckily, else that pop he took at me up on the top floor might have done some damage.”
“Our protocol is to hold and interview suspects until the police arrive, sir.” Matt presses, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before I hand my mate over.
Milo’s fingers tighten another twist into the fabric of my T-shirt. “That’s not necessary. I’m taking this one directly for processing. Besides, if he talks at ye for too long, he’ll only try and sell ye some shampoo.”
Blunt teeth bite into the sensitive skin of my right flank, and I hiss. Oh, Milo is definitely my mate.
Only once we’re out of the bank and across the intersection, do I set him back on his own feet. “Get in the truck, Pup.”
“Milo? We’re home.” Gently, I stroke the longer strands of his silver hair from his forehead while he wakes up.
He blinks once, twice, then smiles and stretches in his seat. “So tired,” he mumbles.
Fumbling with the door, he staggers out of the truck, and I offer him my hand. With the cuffs no longer present, he gratefully latches on, and I guide him up the porch steps and into the Nest. Once inside, Milo simply stands still in the entrance hall.
I help him out of my jacket and his boots, then bring him through to the kitchen where the cooled tuxedo cookies wait on the countertop. As predicted, his eyes instantly widen.
“You made cookies?”
“Double chocolate chip: white and dark.”
Milo gives a happy clap, all tiredness seemingly forgotten. “You made tuxedo cookies?”
“For ye, aye. I did.” I scrub my hand over my short beard. “I told ye, I messed up, this was me…”
A loud crunching cuts me off. Milo’s cheeks are pushed out wide like a hamster where he’s shoved in an entire cookie.