Page 34 of A Wolf of War
As she walked, she began to see the patterns.
It all involved wolves.
Willow turned sharply, her breath catching as her eyes darted back to the artwork that lined the hall. At first glance, they were just portraits, stoic figures posed with regal posture. But now? Now, she saw it. Every single one featured a wolf. Not center stage, but always present. At a knee. Peeking out from behind trees. Perched just behind a shoulder. All of them, watching.
She looked down, eyes sweeping the length of the runner beneath her feet. Woven vines, floral borders, and wolves. It was subtle but unmistakable. This wasn’t just a house. It was a monument, a shrine to a bloodline steepedin the supernatural.
She felt like laughing. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked into the room that Milo had put together for her.
Sleep pulled at her again, thick and relentless. With a sigh, she peeled off her clothing piece by piece, casting each item into the growing pile by the bed until she was down to nothing but her bra and panties.
Even those, she shed, letting the fabric flutter to the floor.
At this point, she didn’t care. If Milo had darker intentions, a few scraps of cotton weren’t going to stop him. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep in something uncomfortable.
Her body still belonged toher.
***
She woke with a jolt,mind still fogged from sleep, but heart pounding like a war drum. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Her wrists tugged against something… fabric? Rope? No, leather. She blinked, disoriented, only to realize she was bound to the bedpost. Panic like fire crawled beneath her skin as she tested the limits of her movement.
She felt someone between her legs.
The man looked up.
Golden, glowing eyes.
A predator’s grin.
Willow thrashed—wild, primal, desperate. Her wrists strained against the binds, body slick with sweat and twitching with adrenaline. Then, just as suddenly, she went still. She could hear her own heartbeat, thudding hard in her ears.
“I told you I wouldn’t touch you unless you begged for it,” Milo growled, voice like gravel, grin sharp as a sword. “So beg, Willow.”
She met his gaze, unflinching, her teeth bared in open defiance.
“Fuck you.”
But her body, the traitorous thing, answered differently. Heat bloomed low in her belly; it was an unmistakable sign of her need. Shame made acrid, burning bile rise in her throat. Even now, trembling with fury, she could feel it: the subtle, damning ache of desperation burning its way through her resolve.
She hated him.
But shewantedhim, and that truth made her want to scream.
His breath ghosted over the sensitive curve of her mound, slow and deliberate, and then his grip tightened possessively around her thighs, fingers digging in just enough to remind her who was in control. Her mouth was parted, breath coming in shallow pulls, eyes fluttering half-shut as her resolve unraveled thread by thread.
“Beg for it, Willow,” he rumbled, the glint in his eyes suspended in molten gold—a predator at the edge of the kill.
She screamed in frustration, throwing her head back, shaking it as if the motion alone could loosen the craving taking over her. She didn’t want him to keep talking—she wanted his mouth there.
Devouring her.
Her back arched.
Her breath hitched.
Her sanity frayed.
