Page 55 of A Wolf of War
He tilted closer, brushing the bridge of his nose up along her throat, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. She shivered, but not from cold. She wanted his mouth, wanted to feel the fire of it marking her skin. But instead of claiming her in the way she knew he wanted to, he offered something softer.
He nudged his nose against hers, sweet and unexpected.
“I want you.”
The confession fell from her lips before she could stop it. Maybe it was the ache pooling low in her tender cunt, or the quiet yearning of her heart forsomething it recognized in him. Maybe it was both. Some wild, instinctual part of her whispered that safety lived somewhere beneath him—beneath his mouth, his worship.
Milo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pressed his face to her cheek, inhaling her scent.
For a moment, she feared he hadn’t heard her at all. Then his voice came, low and gravel-rough.
“You’re dream-drunk, sweetheart.”
The words cut through the haze. She blinked, her breath catching in her throat. Her mouth parted, ready to defend, to say that she meant it, but nothing came.
What does that mean? Willow wondered, the words still echoing in her skull.
As if he’d read her mind, Milo leaned back just enough to see her face. He was cast in shadows, outlined with a halo of light that made him seem otherworldly. His eyes were wild, glowing gold and ancient and full of something ready to strike. But he didn’t pounce. He didn’t lose himself.
“We’re in a dream, Willow,” he said softly, voice low in the space between them. “It’s part of the bond between us. If the intention is there, we can meet here. It takes practice to control it… But it’s useful for a number ofreasons.”
She blinked at him, trying to make sense of what that meant. Dream. Bond. Intention.
It felt so real—the heat between them, the weight of the fur rug beneath her, the fire crackling behind Milo. But it explained everything—the way the world seemed softer around the edges, the warmth flooding her chest that wasn’t entirely her own.
Willow froze.
The haze peeled back in layers, thin at first, like mist dissolving beneath the sun, then ripping apart in sheets that exposed every raw nerve. She remembered in flashes. The abduction. The conversation with Lachlan. The attempted violence by the pool. Each one slid into place like the cocking of a loaded gun.
Her breath hitched. Her jaw tightened.
Rage wasn’t the right word. But it was close, so close it scorched her from the inside out.
“Youmotherfucker,” she spat, the words slipping through gritted teeth. She bolted upright. “You’ve been doing this on purpose.”
Milo didn’t flinch. He lay stretched out beside the fire, half-shadowed and still, like some predator lounging inthe sun after a kill.
“You’ve been toying with me,” she snapped, her voice trembling now with disbelief more than fear. “You’re such a jackass.”
Still, he didn’t move. He looked at her the way you peer out the window at a blizzard—like her fury wasn’t something to fear,just a storm to wait out.
“You’re not wrong,” he said finally, sounding vaguely amused. “But I didn’t bring you here tonight. I might have chosen the place, butyoucame tome.”
26
MILO
Milo’s eyes opened slowly to the gray wash of dawn light stretching through the heavy curtains. His body felt unusually still, his limbs weighted with a phantom of sleep that didn’t quite want to let go. But his mind was already moving, pulling him back through the veil of the night before.
Willow.
He could still feel the burn of her anger, sharp and sudden. The way her voice had cracked with betrayal, the fire in her eyes when she realized the dreamscape wasn’t just a coincidence.
But that wasn’t what lingered.
What lingered was the way she had crawled toward him. The softness in her voice before the storm arrived. The tentative press of her body against his chest. The quiet ache in her kiss.
She came to me.
