Page 53 of A Wolf of War
His pulse ticked upward—not out of lust, though it simmered beneath the surface—but out of awe. She was art. Alive and breathing, wrapped in a halo of firelight and fur.
She stared steadily, slowly dragging her body forward across the rug. She wasn’t doing it to tease—shedidn’t even seem fully aware of the effect she was having—but every movement was a distraction. His brain fogged, pulse thudding in his ears.
“Where are we?” she whispered.
“My childhood bedroom,” he responded.
She didn’t respond right away, just stared at him. Her expression shifted, uncertain—torn between instinct and logic, between fear and desire.
He could smell the change in her, the heat between her legs, the spark of something unspoken.
But she didn’t close the distance.
And neither did he.
Instead, Milo crouched and waited—for her to speak, for her to move toward him, for anything she was willing to give.
Willow shifted closer, slow and deliberate, until there was no space left between them. Her eyes found his—wide, ocean-blue, glinting with something unreadable in the flicker of firelight. Milo held still, barely breathing.
She tilted her chin up, gaze unwavering, an invitation wrapped with uncertainty.
Carefully, he lifted a hand to her face, brushing his knuckles along her cheek before letting his palm settlethere. To his shock, she leaned into it. A soft, barely-there sound slipped from her throat, and it hit him like a strike to the sternum.
God, she was going toruinhim.
Her eyes held his, challenging and curious.
Milo’s heart thudded against his ribs. He wondered what it would be like to have her devotion—to earn it. To taste thesweetness of her trust.
He wanted her.
But he wanted her to choose him more.
So he curled his fingers gently around her jaw, grounding them both, and said nothing. Because this time, she was in control.
And that was exactly how it had to be.
25
WILLOW
Willow pulled away—not with force, but with hesitancy—her skin still tingling where he’d touched her. That warmth lingered like a healing wound, curling low in her belly, but she refused to let it settle too deeply.
She turned from him, crossing the room with bare feet pressing silently against the worn wood. The glow of the fire outlined her as she walked, illuminating the soft curves of her form. She didn’t bother covering herself. If he looked, let him. He’d already seen her. It was no longer about modesty.
It was about control.
The space around her was vast and drenched in understated opulence. She ran her fingers across the edge of a heavy mahogany desk, its surface worn only in the places that hinted at long hours of use.
Her gaze drifted to the shelves lining the far wall, crammed with books that she was sure smelled of leather and dust. There was a globe in the corner, antique and faded, next to a tufted armchair that looked like it had swallowed generations of secrets.
“This doesn’t feel like a room for a child,” she said, turning her head just enough to catch his profile in the firelight.
She paused at the edge of the dresser, one handresting on the carved backing. “It feels like it belongs to some history professor in his late fifties.”
Her voice had softened. Not accusatory. Just observant, with a hint of humor.
She wondered again just how many versions of Milo existed, and which ones she was meant to love or fear.
