Page 32 of A Wolf of War
“Great plan, Milo,” Titan deadpanned, throwing a hand in the air. “Let me just get my GPA and my ass beat to hell.”
The two other men laughed, low, comfortable, and familiar. Willow let out something between a scoff and a breathy chuckle, like she couldn’t help herself.
Milo heard it. It meant the world to him.
“Who’s McGarvey?”
The question caught Milo off guard, but hearing her voice soothed him—quiet, cautious, like rainfall on a tin roof. He glanced at Lachlan and Titan, an unspoken exchange passing between the three, before turning his attention back to her.
“He leads the only pack in the city that rivals ours.”
Her brows furrowed. “There are more of you?”
That soft note of awe in her voice encouraged him to continue. “Yes,” he said carefully. “There are. A few smaller packs here and there, but it’s mostly us and the McGarvey pack. Pack names follow the alpha’s lastname, so if leadership changes, the name does, too.”
He hadn’t meant to offer so much, but she didn’t look scared, just curious. He could work with that. It was better than fear, and certainly better than hate.
So he kept talking, just a little longer.
“It’s not often that happens. Usually, somebody has to die.”
Willow went still as she absently pushed the remnants of her food around her plate. It was just scraps now. A few lonely peas, a bit of potato.
Milo watched her closely and couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at his mouth.
“I promise I’m not going to die anytime soon, Willow,” he said, locking eyes with her like he was issuing a vow.
She flushed deeply. “I’m not worried about that, actually.”
“I think the lady doth protest too much.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t quote Shakespeare at me. You probably don’t even know how to read.”
“Let grief convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.”
Willow’s mouth snapped shut. He wasn’t sure what amused him more—her surprise, or the fact thatshe’d assumed he was some illiterate brute.
He wasn’t.
He knew the quote had likely hit home because it meant something. It wasn’t just Shakespearean flair, it was a mirror. A sharp-edged truth she wasn’t ready to admit aloud, that her sorrow was the heart of the problem, not her rage.
That was why she was acting like this. Milo could see it clear as day. She wasn’t being difficult for the sake of it. She was spiraling, trying to hold on to anything that still felt like hers.
“Well, I’m finished,” Titan announced suddenly, standing with a clatter and reaching for his plate.
“Sit the fuck down.”
Milo’s voice hit the air like a gunshot. The growl beneath it echoed.
Titan froze. Eyes wide, he dropped back into his seat. Milo wasn’t just the alpha—he was the executioner too, and he still hadn’t dealt out the punishment that was to come. Titan was aware that he was biding his time. He was foolish to push his buttons at this point.
“No, I’m finished too,” Willow said sharply, pushing back from the table. The scrape of her chair echoed through the room as she stood, and all three menturned to watch her with varying degrees of caution and curiosity.
She picked up her plate with trembling fingers.
“I’ll take care of it,” Milo murmured, reaching out. His hand grazed her arm—a feather-light touch, but it might as well have been a collar by the way she froze.
“Thank you,” she said, and though her voice faltered, she didn’t flinch or pull away.
