Page 68 of A Wolf of War
The kittens were waiting.
One was a storm gray with bright orange eyes that seemed too sharp for a creature so slight. The other, an orange tabby with startling blue eyes, had white across his belly and on the tips of his paws. Willow stroked their fur absently, admiring them as she considered her situation.
She still wasn’t sure she trusted Milo.
Pieces were missing; incidents that didn’t line up, shadows she couldn’t shine a light on, no matter how she tried. How long had he been watching her before the farmer’s market? How had he known her name when she hadn’t even seen his face? What else did he know? Those questions gnawed at her.
Willow was certain of one thing only—Milo still had his secrets.
And she wasn’t sure she wanted to dig them up. Some truths, once unearthed, couldn’t be put back in the ground. Maybe ignorance really was a kind of bliss. Maybe pretending was easier than the alternative when things were already so complicated.
Her gaze drifted to the kittens nestled against her side, their small bodies breathing in perfect rhythm. For a moment, she let herself sink into the simple comfort of watching them. But her thoughts soon slid elsewhere—back to the dream that had haunted her a few nights ago.
Milo’s childhood bedroom. The rug beneath them. He stretched out beside her, close but not pressing, his presence wrapping around her entirely. She remembered the way the light had come through in amber waves, and the strange ache in her chest when she’d felt his lips ghost overher body.
It had felt so real at the time.
And, somehow, she had gone to him.
She shook her head, brushing her fingers over the kittens’ fur, as if their warmth could chase the thoughts away. But they lingered all the same—his secrets, her doubts, and the bond between them that pulsed stubbornly beneath it all, demanding to be acknowledged.
Regardless, she was here. And the truth was, there were far worse things in this world than Milo with his watchful eyes and unsettling devotion.
Her mind flickered to McGarvey, the name alone enough to send unease rippling through her. She didn’t even know his face, had never heard his voice, but Milo’s descriptions had painted him as monstrous, ruthless and predatory. A man who dealt inhuman flesh.
Willow shuddered, pulling the blanket a little tighter around herself. She hoped she would never have to see that man for herself.
For all her doubts about Milo, she had one certainty—if McGarvey ever came knocking, she would rather be standing behind her stalker-turned-captor-turned-protector than face the darkness alone.
32
MILO
“Think she’ll put two and two together?”
Milo arched a brow, glancing over at Titan. The younger wolf was hunched over a laptop, a textbook spread open beside it, the glow of the screen brightening his face. The van around them was kitted out like a command post—rows of monitors, wires, gear—and looked entirely nondescript from the outside.
“What?” Milo asked, voice flat.
“That the McGarvey I’ve been talking about is the same McGarvey who wants to fuck our shit up.”
Milo snorted, turning back to the wall of camera feeds flickering in front of him. “Maybe when it’s pointed out to her in a very obvious way.”
If there was one thing he’d learned about Willow, it was that she wasn’t exactly the observant type. And maybe that was for the best. Ignorance could be bliss. He was willing to let her live in it as long as he could, if only to protect her for longer.
It had been a week since the kittens came home, and their care had somehow become part of a mutual rhythm between himself and Willow. Every night since, he and Willow had found each other in their dreams—always the same delicate tether, as if fate itself kept drawing them back together.
There, it was all light touches and the ghost of lips brushing, moments stretched thin with anticipation. Never more than that. Willow wasn’t ready. He could feel it in the way she leaned into him and then pulled back, warmth tempered by caution.
And he took what she offered, no matter how little it was compared to what he wanted. He held her close when she allowed it, memorizing the weight of her against him, the scent of her hair, the small sighs she let slip when her guard faltered.
She was warmer with him now. The ice had cracked, melting in places, but the wall was still there—stubborn, unyielding. She gave him pieces, never the whole. And Milo accepted it, even as a part of him ached with the certainty that she was his.
He could wait. He’d take the warmth she offered and bide his time, holding her in dreams until she finally let him hold her in truth.
It had also been a week of chasing his own tail, trying to pin down Jenner. They’d caught glimpses of him here and there, but his presence was always fleeting, a mirage swaying above hot pavement. By the time Milo had boots on the ground, the little weasel had already slipped away, vanishing as though the city itself hadconspired to protect him, swallowing him whole.
Now Milo was on the ground himself, hunting Jenner the old-fashioned way. Sometimes that was what it took. You couldn’t delegate instinct, couldn’t catch a scent through a screen. And being the one in charge meant leading by example, never asking his men to get their hands dirty in ways he wouldn’t.
