Page 37 of A Wolf of War
Today felt right.
There was a stillness in the house that eased his nerves. Lachlan was elbow-deep in a surgical shift. Titan had been sent off on a glorified errand with vague instructions and even vaguer directions—mostly because Milo had been in the mood to fuck with him.
The pack was scattered.
Which meant…
It was just him.
Andher, of course.
He stretched, muscles rolling beneath his skin like shifting earth. Milo wasn’t just brute strength—he was power made elegant, violence tempered by discipline. Flexibility was a quiet weapon, one honed as mercilessly as his aim. No wasted motion. No unnecessary bulk. Everything about his body was curated to perfection.
Slipping from beneath the covers, he padded toward the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with theface of a man sculpted by war and trauma, and he met his own gaze with a grim acknowledgement. Overpriced electric toothbrush in hand, he ran through the motions with discipline. Grooming wasn’t vanity. It was part of the ritual. Another layer of control.
Once finished, he dressed in his uniform of choice—dark jeans, black t-shirt, bare feet on hardwood floors.
Then he made his way to the kitchen.
He had a mate to feed.
***
The kitchen glowedin the early light, golden beams spilling across the counters. The polished granite reflected it back in warm brilliance, casting soft shadows that danced with the promise of a new day. Milo paused at the threshold, hand braced against the doorframe, and let it wash over him.
For just a second, he allowed himself the indulgence of a fantasy.
Willow, standing barefoot by the stove, one of his shirts draped over her. Her hair tousled from sleep, her laughter curling through the room like smoke. A spatula in one hand, a rounded bellycradled by the other—swelling with his child.
The image took his breath.
It was primal, the kind of need that didn’t come with logic or restraint. Just the unrelenting drive to claim, to keep, to build. Milo’s breath caught as a sharp bolt of arousal struck him low, hunger twisting inside him like a blade. His cock twitched.
Shaking the image from his mind, he crossed the threshold and made a beeline for the fridge. It wasn’t just Willow distracting him. Wolves weren’t made to be alone. Without his second at his side, Milo felt the shift in his center of gravity. Arlo was his anchor, his closest friend, his tether to reason when everything else tilted off-axis.
Watching his best friend from afar, Milo realized just how much of his own stability was tied up in the man. Distraction was necessary—productive distraction.
He knew her preferences down to the last detail. Sweet coffee. Sweeter breakfast. Pancakes drenched in maple syrup, buried under a mountain of whipped cream. Milo pulled the ingredients for pancakes and got to work with practiced ease. Eggs cracked, flour measured, butter melted. By the time he was folding in chocolate chips, the iron hot and hissing, he sensed her.
If he’d been shifted, his ears would have swiveled backward. Even in his human form, he didn’t need to look. His senses told him everything.
Bare feet on the stairs.
Tentative footsteps.
And the scent, God, the scent hit him like a freight train. Hot, sweet arousal thick in the morning air. His jaw clenched, fists tightening around the bowl. He had to force himself to loosen his grip before the glass broke.
He heard her creeping across the kitchen floor, each step cautious but far from silent to his attentive ears. The gentle scrape of metal against cotton made his grin bloom slow and wicked. A flying pan was his guess.
Adorable.
Milo didn’t even pause.
In one fluid motion, he turned, caught her wrist in his calloused palm, and spun her into his arms. His other arm coiled tight around her waist, anchoring her to his chest where she belonged.
She gasped, but didn’t resist.
He leaned in, breath brushing her lips, their foreheads nearly touching. His voice was a low, rumbling whisper that hung like a noose in the space between them.
