Page 54 of A Wolf of War
Willow drifted away from the dresser and back toward the fireplace, slow and deliberate in every step, as though retracing her path through some dream. The warmth licked at her bare skin, casting her in flickering gold and shadow, and as she lowered herself to the rug, she felt the softness of it cushion her limbs like a lover’s hands.
She sat with her back pressed against the couch, drawing her knees up slightly, arms draped loosely around them. Her head tilted to the side, catching him in her periphery. Willow extended a hand and patted the rug beside her twice.
Still watching him, she raised a brow, just slightly.
“Well?” she murmured.
There was no heat in her voice. Just a quiet challenge, daring him to come closer and see what happened when fire met flint. He braved the threat offlame and came to rest beside her, mirroring Willow’s position.
“Why are we here?”
She was curious—truly, deeply curious—and it was unsettling in a way she hadn’t expected. The edges of her vision felt blurred, dreamlike. The world around her had gone soft, like it had slipped underwater, and now she floated inside it, untethered and disoriented.
“I thought maybe you’d want to know more about me,” Milo said quietly, his voice coming in through the haze. “At least, I hope you do. I’m not keeping you here because I want to hurt you, Willow. I’m doing it to protect you. If you knew more, maybe you’d see that.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. Her body was too heavy, her thoughts too light.
He was watching her with his head tilted slightly to the side, studying her the way a farmer studies a storm. Not fearful, but aware that it could break him if he wasn’t careful. And he should be. She didn’t know what she was capable of anymore.
Not with him, at least.
One thing was certain—Milo’s heart was not safe in her hands. Willow felt the distance between them like an impassable chasm. The bond tuggedat her, but she refused to be pulled. Still, the sting of that resistance hurt more than she wanted to admit.
And yet, she cared. Not in the way he wanted. Not in the way that made sense. But it was there, a quiet ache in her chest every time she saw the storm in his eyes soften for her. That alone made it harder to write him off completely.
She could use that. She could twist the thread of their bond around her finger, sleep in his bed and whisper promises into the dark—all for the sake of an escape. The idea had festered in her mind more than once.
But when the moment came, when she imagined looking into those mournful eyes and lying straight through her teeth, something inside her recoiled.
“Milo, I’m scared.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them, barely more than a whisper. They hovered in the space between them, fragile and uncertain. Willow’s gaze dropped to the floor. She didn’t know who she was anymore. Her life had been gutted and rearranged, and she was stuck somewhere in the ruins, unsure of where to go from there.
“I know, Willow,” he said, quiet but steady. “Can I hold you?”
She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Her body was caught in a strange push and pull—instinct screaming to run, to retreat, while something deeper, something older, begged her to stay.
After a breath, she nodded.
Milo reached out, warm fingers closing gently around her hand. He guided her to the middle of the rug, where the heat licked at her skin almost too softly to feel real. He laid down, rolling onto his side. Willow followed, hesitant, then let herself curl into him.
Her face turned into his chest.
The steady thrum of his heartbeat echoed against her cheek, grounding her in a way nothing else ever had.
Willow lifted her head. For a long moment, she just looked at him; let herself take in the softness around his eyes, the gentle lift of his brow, the way his lips were parted ever so slightly, waiting.
Her hand came up to his chest first, pressing lightly. And then, quietly, without ceremony, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his.
It was slow. Gentle.Measured.
When she pulled back, her breath caught at the expression on his face—equal parts stunned and hopeful, like she’d given him something to hold on to.She pressed her body to his, curling against the warmth of him, letting the fire chase away the rest of her fear.
She wasn’t sure what this was yet, wasn’t ready to give it a name, but she was starting to feel it settle under her skin, making itself at home.
His hands skimmed over her skin like ghosts, pulling every jagged piece of her fractured heart up to the surface. Part of her, the part still bitter with its wounds, wished he’d bleed for it. That he’d press his palm too hard to her chest and feel the sharpness of everything she wasn’t ready to give.
But Milo was careful.
