Page 39 of A Wolf of War
The next, he was whistling under his breath while flipping pancakes like none of it had happened. Like she wasn’t still burning from the inside out.
Willow’s skin prickled. This version of him—the domestic, apronless house-husband—made her stomach twist. Not from fear, but from a far more dangerous attraction. She knew better than to let her guard down. Humanizing your captor was the first step toward losing yourself. And yet…
Those lips.
Those hands.
That voice in her ear, rough with hunger.
She clenched her jaw, biting back the heat that pooled low in her belly. Willow set the containers down with enough force to lightly rattle the table. Her fingers were locked around the syrup bottle like it might anchor her to reality. When she heard the thud echo back at her, she closed her eyes and inhaled slowly through her nose. No. He wasn’t worth the explosion simmering just beneath her skin.
She could survive this withoutfalling apart.
A moment later, he entered like he hadn’t just pulled her apart in the kitchen—carrying a plate stacked with pancakes and a smug sense of satisfaction. He added two place settings to the table, as though it were a brunch date and not a meal with a woman he’d kidnapped.
Willow sank into the nearest chair, arms crossed tight over her chest. She didn’t bother looking at him. Not even when he cleared his throat like a host waiting for her thanks.
Fuck you, buddy,she thought.
Instead of pushing, he simply placed a plate in front of her and began stacking three fluffy pancakes onto it. Willow sighed through her nose, snatching the tub of butter with a little more force than necessary. She hated that he was getting his way. Again. Every moment with him felt like a silent victory on his part, whether he said it or not.
Still, she knew better than to let spite win. Starving herself wouldn’t weaken him. It would only make her vulnerable, and she couldn’t afford that.
She needed her strength.
If she wanted even a chance at getting out of here, she’d need his trust first. That was going to be the tricky part.
“So,” Willow began, jaw tight, eyes fixed on her plate, “what do you actually do for work?”
She shifted in her seat, trying not to wince. Her body still pulsed from earlier, every nerve ending raw and agitated. Small talk was almost laughable under the circumstances, but she forced it out anyway. She could feel her swollen heat pressing into the seat beneath her.
Milo didn’t miss a beat. “You’re looking at it,” he said simply, slicing into his own stack. “My job is making sure the pack is cared for. That the business runs nice and smooth.”
“Business?” She looked up at him, her brows knitting. Something in the way he said it gave her pause.
He met her gaze evenly. “That’s right, sweetheart. We’re the pipeline. Anything coming into this city—guns, drugs, product of any kind—passes through us first. We make sure it gets where it needs to go.”
Willow’s stomach twisted, her appetite evaporating.
“So you’re the reason half the people in this city are suffering and addicted,” she said, voice sharp enough to draw blood. Her knife scraped across the plate as she cut into her food like it had personally wronged her.
“That’s one way to look at it,” Milo replied, utterly unfazed. “Or you could look at the fact that we ensure shit is clean to keep overdose rates down.”
She glared at her pancakes like they might turn into a weapon. “It’s fucking disgusting. Nothing you do to smooth it over is going to make it less so.”
Milo’s fork paused midair. He didn’t argue. Didn’t apologize. Just changed the topic.
“I have a surprise for you today. I think you’re going to like it.”
She glanced up at him, suspicious and guarded. She wasn’t sure where he was going with this, and she also wasn’t excited. She hated surprises as a rule, and especially when they came from a madman who was holding her against her will.
“Just trust me.”
Somewhere, deep down, she desperately wished she could.
***
Willow had swappedher pajamas for something better suited to the heat, a white racerback and jean shorts. The days were growing warmeras spring faded slowly into summer, and the sunlight filtering through the windows only made her crave freedom more. She longed for beach days—salt in the air, toes buried in warm sand, a drink sweating in her hand as she and her sister clinked glasses and drifted into their usual rhythm of easy laughter and deep conversation.
