Page 29 of A Wolf of War
Her mind was still spiraling, trying to compute the impossible and find her footing on ground that kept shifting beneath her.
She swayed where she stood, knees aching, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Everything hurt, physically, emotionally, existentially. She didn’t want to sleep. She didn’t want to let her guard down, but she didn’t think she had a choice.
The bed loomed, sorely tempting in its softness, its promise of rest. She hated how badly she wanted to sinkinto it. Hated more that she knew she would. But it was just for a little while. Just long enough to rest her body.
Willow walked over, climbed in, and pulled the blankets tight around her trembling frame.
She had to rest.
Because war was coming.
And she needed to be ready.
***
Willow woketo dusky light filtering through the bay window’s frosted panes, gold and gray painting long, dappled shadows across the floor. Her eyes opened slowly, lashes fluttering as she blinked away the remnants of uneasy dreams of beasts, darkness, terror.
Every part of her begged for more rest. The ache in her bones, the weight behind her eyes, that warm, sleepy urge to roll over, pull the covers high, and let her energy replenish.
But she didn’t have time for that.
Willow exhaled hard through her nose and pushed herself up. Her muscles protested with every movement. Even so, she rolled her shoulders, stretched out her legs, and planted her feet on the cool hardwood floor.
Her eyes swept the room again, sharper this time. The shadows were longer now, every corner darker. Every potential exit was still sealed tight. It was perfectly constructed to be a beautiful prison.
And she was the inmate.
Willow stood. Her pulse pounded low in her throat, a steady rhythm that matched her resolve. She didn’t care how many men he had. She didn’t care how far off the grid he’d taken her, or how hopeless it looked. Where there was a will, there was a way, and hers was engraved in iron. But as her mind worked through every possibility, every crack, every weak point in the house’s defenses, one truth rose to the surface with grim finality. This wasn’t going to end without blood.
Willow had never been a violent person. Kindness came naturally, and she was an unrepentant people pleaser. Violence had always felt crude by comparison, loud and uncivilized. The last resort of men who didn’t know how to regulate themselves.
But this place didn’t speak the language of peace. If she was going to survive, it was time to learn the rhythm of war.
She wasn’t vicious by nature, but nature could be rewritten. She would peel away her softness like asecond skin, let her loving heart harden in the face of his madness.
No, Willow had never been a violent person.
But she could now see that she was perfectly capable of becoming one.
Willow combed the room with the eyes of a captive, not admiring, but simply assessing. She ran her fingers along the window frame, checking for hidden latches or locks. Nothing. Reinforced glass. The bay window was decorative, but still practical. Naturally. Her attention moved to the walls, the floorboards, even the vent covers—anything that might offer an edge, a crack or an oversight.
She padded into the en suite bathroom next, dazzled by the size of it. Marble countertops, a rainfall shower, a clawfoot tub, a multitude of features far out of her tax bracket.
Willow shook herself from the moment of admiration. Now wasn’t the time.
She opened drawers and rifled through cabinets, finding only practical necessities. It was nice to know she would want for nothing, however, and that she wouldn’t be forced into conversation just to ask for them.
Until it hit her.
There weren’t any tampons.
Willow flushed so hard she could feel the heat in her face. And then another, significantly more horrifying thought dawned on her. Having to ask her captors for tampons or pads was humiliating enough… but what if she didn’t even need to ask?
She wanted to vomit.
Would they be able to smell it?
She stood frozen in the middle of the bathroom, trying not to spiral, but the memory slammed into her like a freight train—Milo, casually remarking on her soaked panties with a confidence that hadn’t registered until now. At the time, she’d thought it was just a lucky guess.
