Page 76 of A Wolf of War
“Is it… going to hurt?”
Milo’s gaze softened, though his answer carried weight. “It’s… complicated. Yes and no. From what I’ve been told, it’s not pain in the way you think. It’s overwhelming—stretching you further than you thought possible, holding you there for upwards of an hour, where you can barely move. But every woman I’ve ever spoken to says the same thing.” His lips quirked faintly, and his eyes never left hers. “That it’s the most intense, earth-shattering pleasure they’ve ever felt.”
Her breath caught at the blunt honesty of it, her mind scrambling. And then a thought struck her, sharp and sudden.
“Milo, are there female werewolves?”
The look he gave her made her feel like she’d just grown an extra head. “Of course there are.”
“Then why haven’t I met any?”
He tilted his head, humming low in his throat as though considering it for the first time. “That’s a fair point. You haven’t. But this—” he gestured faintlyto the walls around them “—is a bachelor house. My men won’t take mates until their alpha does. That’s how all packs operate. It has to start at the top. The alpha finds his match, and only then does the rest of the pack fall in line. That’s how the next generation is born—new blood, new wolves. That’s how the cycle continues.”
She groaned, her head falling back so she could squint at the fluffy clouds hanging overhead.
“Werewolf culture sounds so complicated.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You don’t have to think. You just have to grow my babies,” he growled into her ear. She gasped, whipping around to face him, eyes flashing with anger.
“I am not an incubator for your potential offspring, Milo,” she growled, baring her teeth at him.
His smile was absolutely wicked. “We’ll see how you feel come the end of the month. Bet you anything you’re begging for me to pump you full of cum before night even falls.”
She refused to dignify that with a response, even if she knew his nose would sense the one between her legs anyway.
36
MILO
The garden was overgrown, a tangle of weeds that had swallowed the beds whole and choked the pathways between them. Milo stood with his arms folded across his chest, boots planted in the dirt as he surveyed the wreckage.
It hadn’t been touched in years—not since he had tended it as a boy and then a young man, hands raw from pulling weeds and learning which plants needed pruning, which needed patience. Back then, the garden had thrived. Back then, it had been something beautiful.
Now, it looked like a graveyard of all the dreams he had held while he was young.
Milo exhaled through his nose, shaking his head at himself. A soldier, a commander, a killer—and here he was, thinking about fertilizer ratios and whether or not the soil was too acidic to hold basil.
But maybe that was the point.
Milo crouched, dragging a broad palm through the dark earth, and for the first time in years, he thought about what it would mean to rebuild something instead of tearing it apart. The idea of starting the garden again settled strangely in his chest. Maybe Willow would like it. She deserved beauty. She deserved peace. And if he could give her that in the form of a garden, then he would.
His mind drifted—inevitably, always—to her. To the way she’d looked at him that night a couple weeks back when they’d first made love, hesitant but unafraid, to the tremor in her voice when she’d asked him what it would mean to be knotted.
She hadn’t run. She’d listened, thought about it, and still, she waswilling.
The relief that swept through him at the memory was staggering. The beast inside him, always so close to the surface when she was near quieted in that remembrance. She would let him claim her fully, bind her to him under the moon. The mate bond would no longer be a fragile thread but something unbreakable. Permanent.
Milo straightened, brushing the dirt from his hands, and looked over the tangled mess again. It would take weeks of work, patience, and persistence. But he could picture it already—sunlight catching on budding flowers, herbs spilling over wooden beds, Willow wandering barefoot between the rows with a watering can.
Milo left the garden behind, brushing the dirt from his palms as he stepped back into the house. The shift in air was immediate—cooler, quieter, but not without its own kind of chaos due to their newest additions. The kittens came barreling through the kitchen like tiny streaks of furry lightning, one skidding across thetile before regaining balance with a startled chirp.
He leaned against the counter, arms folded as he watched them tumble over each other. Already, they’d doubled in size since he and Willow had brought them home. Their paws didn’t look so oversized anymore, their eyes sharper, more alert. A few more weeks and they’d start losing that fragile kitten clumsiness, turning into proper little predators.
His chest tightened in a way he wasn’t ready to put words to. Too damn fast. Everything felt like it was moving too damn fast, and it all seemed to be going so well. His stomach tightened. It couldn’t stay that way. It wouldn’t. He hated that.
The back door clicked, followed by the sound of shoes scuffing on tile and the unmistakable scent of his packmate. Milo looked up just as Lachlan trudged in, peeling off his jacket with the sluggish motions of a man who’d gone far too long without real rest.
His hair was mussed, his purple scrubs wrinkled, and there was a shadow to his face that spoke louder than any words could.
