Page 47 of A Wolf of War
Titan was already there, leaning against the side of a black Charger with his arms crossed and a scowl that likely hadn’t budged since puberty. The younger wolf straightened as Milo stepped out, heavy boots landing on the concrete like punctuation marks.
“You made good time,” Titan muttered, falling in step as Milo passed.
“I wasn’t stopping for red lights,” Milo replied, scanning the building with sharp eyes. “You see any movement?”
“Just the usual rats. No signs of McGarvey’s wolves yet.”
“Then they’re already inside.”
Milo led the way toward the warehouse’s side door, every step echoing beneath the high steel roof. He could smell the river, rust, and something else underneath it all—something wrong.
The quickly mounting tension sharpened as they reached the threshold.
The metal door groaned on rusted hinges as Milo pushed, the sound bouncing down the darkened corridor like a warning shot. Cold air met them first, sea-drenched and metallic, followed by the faint flicker of fluorescent lights, one of them stuttering overhead like a faulty nerve. Milo moved first.
He swept the space with his eyes, mentally marking the exits, counting shadows, cataloging angles. It was muscle memory now. Doorways. Blind spots. Cracks in the concrete that could trip a man running for cover. Every sense dialed in, heightened by the wolf inside him.
Titan followed a step behind, too loud. Too tense. Milo could hear his heartbeat, the fluttering of uncertainty bleeding out through his pores.
“Breathe through it, pup,” Milo murmured underhis breath. Titan didn’t answer, but his pace steadied.
They turned a corner into a massive, open room where the ceiling rose in a cavernous arc overhead. It had once housed freight. Now, it held something far heavier.
McGarvey stood at the center of it all, arms crossed, jaw tight, his pack flanking him like obedient dogs. Five men. No visible weapons.
That didn’t mean they weren’t armed.
Milo stepped forward.
“McGarvey.”
McGarvey’s smile slithered across his face.
“Milo,” he drawled, voice smooth as aged bourbon and just as full-bodied. “Always a pleasure. And Titan, of course. I do hope you’re hard at work on the essay I assigned.”
Milo didn’t return the smile, ignoring his pointed words.
He stopped ten paces away, feet planted like concrete and arms loose at his sides, relaxed but ready. “Let’s skip the formalities. You called this meeting. What do you want?”
McGarvey let out a low chuckle, brushing imaginary lint off the shoulder of his charcoal blazer. “So direct. It’s charming, in a beastlysort of way.” He took a slow step forward, his pack staying firmly behind him.
“I want peace, Milo,” McGarvey said, lifting his palms in what reeked of mock sincerity. “At least for now. The city’s bleeding. Our men are restless. Tensions are rising, and if we don’t ease the pressure, we’ll be wiping blood off our floors for months.”
“You’re not wrong,” Milo said flatly. “But you don’t usually care about the chaos or the cleanup.”
“True.” McGarvey’s grin widened. “But I do care about optics. And business. War is so… messy.”
He let the pause linger.
“I propose a truce. Temporary, of course. We give the city time to breathe. You and I keep our wolves in line.”
Milo narrowed his eyes.
“And what’s in it for you?”
McGarvey’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it grew wider.
“Oh, Milo. Must everything be transactional with you?” He took another measured step forward, the heel of his Italian leather loafer clicking against the concrete floor. “Fine. I’ll humor you.”
