Page 61 of A Wolf of War
Crossing the room, he tapped the keypad to seal the armory. The bookcase slid silently back into place, leaving no sign of what was hidden behind it. Milo adjusted the strap of the rifle case on his shoulder and walked out, already running tonight’s plan through his head.
***
“Is that… a gun?”
Her disbelief was so pure, Milo laughed.
“Are you telling me it’s strange for the head of the ‘werewolf mafia’ to be armed?”
Willow’s lips pressed together, a flicker of awareness passing through her eyes. She knew she’d walked into that one. Instead of answering, she folded her arms and gave a noncommittal little hum.
“Yes, it’s a gun,” he said, unzipping the case with deliberate care. “And not just any gun. It’s the one you’re going to learn to shootwith.”
She went pale, the shock plain on her face. Milo knew she wasn’t violent by nature—hell, she was likely the gentlest person he knew. But this wasn’t about nature; it was about survival. And in the wake of McGarvey’s moves, survival meant knowing how to put a round exactly where it needed to go.
He zipped the case shut after letting her see the rifle’s black, predatory lines. It would ride in the backseat with Titan, close enough to grab if the trouble they were imagining decided to show its face. Some problems couldn’t be solved with a handgun.
“Where are we going?” Willow asked as they stepped out into the glare of late-day sunlight. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes, the heat painting her skin in gold.
She wore a sundress the same shade as her eyes, impossibly blue. The cut was simple, nothing meant to tempt, but on her it was earth-shattering. Milo’s gaze lingered, tracing the way the fabric shifted with her every step. He could never get his fill, no matter what she had on… though he’d always admit, he liked her best when there was nothing between his hands and her skin.
“That’s a surprise.” His smile was small, warm. For a moment, it felt like the early days—before the McGarvey problem, before the threat, before he tore herworld apart. She’d been different since he’d given her the truth.
He hoped it stayed that way.
Titan lounged against the back door of Milo’s SUV, watching them approach. He was dressed in that polished, city-slick style Milo would’ve mocked on anyone else. But, on Titan, it fit like it had been made for him, which it had been. The guy had expensive taste and a tailor on speed dial.
The air still held the faint bite of fear. Titan hadn’t forgotten the last time Milo’s temper had come out to play. But Willow had made it clear that wouldn’t be happening again, and Milo wasn’t foolish enough to test her on it. For all he knew, next time she’d be just as quick to bite as she was to bark.
They climbed in, the thud of three doors shutting in near-perfect unison, and Milo started the car. The SUV was quiet as Milo eased it down the long drive, gravel popping under the tires. Then Willow shifted in her seat, turning to pin Titan with a look.
“Where are we going, Titan?” Her tone was all sweetness, but there was something sinister coiled beneath it.
Titan blinked, caught between two bad options, displeasing her or displeasing Milo.
Milo spared him the decision. “Stop trying to make him get himself in trouble. It’s mean.”
Willow’s laugh burst out, bright and sudden, before she faced forward again. “Yeah, well, you’d know all about being mean.”
His smile was slow, deliberate. “Sweetheart, you haven’t seen mean yet. But keep being a naughty girl, and I’ll be happy to educate you later tonight. How do you feel about knees? Being bent over them?”
The shift in scent was instant, sharp, and undeniable, her body betraying exactly where her mind had gone. In the back seat, Titan groaned, thunking his head against the window.
“Can we not be gross, guys? Please?”
Willow smacked Milo’s arm in mock protest, echoing Titan’s sentiment. He only smiled wider, watching her lean forward to play with the radio, fingers twirling the dial.
He had a good feeling about tonight.
29
WILLOW
The ride was… pleasant, in a way that felt almost wrong. Willow sat back in her seat, eyes drifting over the blur of trees and sunlit front yards passing beyond the window, and tried not to think about how strange it was to feel even a sliver of peace with everything that was hanging over her head.
On the surface, she kept her shoulders relaxed, her breathing steady. But beneath all the bravado, she was screaming.
McGarvey’s name pulsed in her thoughts like a warning bell. Every detail Milo had given her replayed in sharp, ugly fragments—men who dealt in flesh, in organs, in nightmares. She tried to picture what it would mean if they got their hands on her, but her mind shied away from the image. The unknown was bad enough; imagining specifics made her stomach turn.
