Page 11 of Hellhound AU

ROWAN

I was apparently destined to look like an idiot in front of Milo, because the whole woods and clothes story really was awful. I knew it. He knew it. But I didn’t ask where he was going with a gun, and he didn’t ask why I was naked. Sounded perfectly fair to me.

Why was I low-key stalking Milo? I wasn’t sure. I’d been in my hellhound form, and next thing I knew, I was near his house. He’d surprised me by coming out looking like a hitman, and I’d accidentally made some noise. Then I figured I’d better show myself before I got shot, and also before Milo went off on his own to do something stupid.

The man was a complete menace, and he obviously couldnotbe trusted on his own.

He’d almost shot himself and run me over in a ten minute span of time, and if he was going somewhere with a gun, chances were that he was heading into danger. Milo in danger made my hackles rise.

“Hey, do you want some pretzels?” he asked, and he motioned toward the backpack.

I grabbed it and unzipped it. They appeared freshly baked, and they were the big soft pretzels. The smell made my mouth water, and I opened the ziplock bag to grab one.

I should have known by the way Milo kept looking over at me, but I had forgotten about the brownies. Until I took a bite of the pretzel, at least.

I coughed, choking and spitting little bits of pretzel—if that’s what we were calling this abomination of a baked good—all over the dashboard.

“Aww, does that mean it isn’t good?” Milo asked.

I was still gasping for breath. I managed to find a napkin in the backpack at my feet, where I promptly spit the gooey, awful mess that Milo called a pretzel. I may have even tried wiping my tongue off with the napkin.

“Ethel gave me that recipe. What the fuck?” complained Milo.

I didn’t think it was the recipe, but I wasn’t going to tell Milo that. If he baked like he walked through life, then it was no wonder his concoctions were chaotic messes.

I’d have to start feeding him. The idea popped into my head out of nowhere, and I turned it around in my mind. I was calm. I liked my calm existence. Milo was a chaos demon, a menace to himself and others, and the worst chef I’d ever met. Yet I felt weirdly pleased at the idea of providing him with meals.

“I wonder if that bitch is sabotaging me on purpose,” mumbled Milo.

From his voice, I didn’t think he was seriously calling her a bitch, but it made me think that if I was going to make it my mission to feed Milo, I might need to be subtle about it.

We’d had a stray cat when I was younger, although I guess I’d kind of adopted it. He had been a sweetie in the long run,and I’d loved him dearly and mourned his passing. It was why I generally didn’t have pets—losing them was far too hard.

Anyway, Milo reminded me of Chuck—stubborn and prickly. I thought that if I showed that I cared too much about his eating habits, he’d buckle down and not eat on principle alone. I’d have to find ways to subtly leave food for him and seem completely uninterested in whether or not he ate it. Only then would he probably accept my offerings.

“When you meet Ray, be nice or I’ll cut you,” Milo threatened.

I hummed an affirmation as we pulled into a driveway—Ray apparently didn’t live far from Milo at all. I probably could have run here in my hellhound form just as fast. I didn’t get the sense that Ray was in danger, though.

I hoped we weren’t going to kill this Ray. Maybe I should have asked that before we got here. Oops.

Milo already had the car in park and was hopping out, and I followed.

“Come on, Hulk,” Milo called out, jogging up the front steps.

I followed, looking down at myself. “Hulk?” I asked.

He’d already knocked on the door, and a man with dark hair (with a few grays) and dark green eyes opened the door. He was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt, and he had on sunglasses, although I could see the black eye beneath the shades.

“I’m guessing because of the sweatpants along with a lack of shoes and a shirt. The sweatpants are a little too small, too, so they look like the Hulk’s when he Hulks out and rips all his other clothes off.” The guy—Ray, I presumed—looked up at me. “Jesus, you’re tall. What are you, seven feet? Still, I’m sure I have a shirt and shoes that’ll manage.”

I grunted, but before I could reply, Milo was pulling the sunglasses off of Ray’s face. “I’ll fucking kill him,” Milo said when he fully saw the black eye.

Ray just sighed, stepping back and motioning us in.

We ended up in the kitchen, and Ray fixed us all some iced tea and brought out some cookies and little pastry things. I looked at them suspiciously, and Ray’s eyes danced with humor when he saw my face.

He mock-whispered, “Don’t worry. Milo didn’t make these.”