Page 79 of A Wolf of War
Her voice was raw, quiet but resolute. “I don’t want this, Milo. I can’t… I want an abortion.” The words cracked at the edges, but she held onto them, bracing herself for the fight she expected to come.
But it didn’t.
Milo’s expression softened instead of hardening, his thumb brushing the damp trail of tears from her cheek. “Okay,” he said simply, his voice low and steady. No judgment. No hesitation. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
Her throat closed up, disbelief written across her face. “You’re… you’re not angry?”
He shook his head, pressing his forehead gently against hers. “No, sweetheart. Never at you. This is your body, not mine. If this is what you want, then that’s what happens. Lachlan will make sure it’s safe, and I’ll be withyou every step of the way.” His hand came to rest against her side, grounding her, steady as stone. “It’s going to be okay.”
Willow’s lip trembled, her chest clenching with something sharp—relief so strong it hurt. She stared at him, wide-eyed, as though trying to see if there was some hidden condition in his words. But there wasn’t.
Hemeantit.
She collapsed back into him, her face pressed to his chest again, a sob breaking free—not of fear, but of gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words muffled but soaked with every ounce of her shaking relief.
Milo only kissed the crown of her head and held her tighter. “Always, baby. Whatever you need.”
Willow’s sobs quieted again, her breaths finally finding some fragile rhythm against him. Milo smoothed a hand down her back, the tension in his chest easing as he felt her start to steady. He kissed her temple, lingering there a moment before murmuring, “You’ve had enough heaviness for one day, sweetheart.”
He shifted just slightly, the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Let’s get cleaned up,” he purred, the words low and edged with meaning. His tone promised more than just a shower—it was an invitation, a reminder thathe wanted her, not out of duty, not out of circumstance, but because she was his and he adored her.
Willow bit her lip, nodding slowly, already being swept up by the heat building in her body.
***
Milo scoopedher up as though she weighed nothing, his arms steady, his chest unshakable against her cheek. Willow clung to him out of instinct more than need, her tears drying into his shirt as he carried her into the en suite. She felt the sway of his stride, the grounding calm of him, and by the time they reached the bathroom, her body had relaxed in his arms.
He set her down gently, making sure she was steady on her feet before letting her go. His hands lingered a second longer than necessary, brushing down her arms, reassuring without words. Willow watched as he reached for the hem of her shirt, lifting it slowly. His movements weren’t urgent, weren’t hungry. They were careful, tender, deliberate—as if each button, each sleeve, each shift of fabric was some small act of devotion.
Her breath caught as he knelt briefly to peel her socks from her feet, pressing a kiss to her knee beforestanding again. There was no shame in it, no heat beyond the warmth of his love. Just Milo, her Milo, taking care of her.
He turned to the shower, twisting the handle until steam rose, then tested the water with his palm. A frown, an adjustment, another check, until his features softened in approval. Only then did he begin tugging off his own shirt, his belt, setting each piece aside with quiet efficiency.
When he was finished, he reached for her hand. His fingers twined with hers, tugging her gently toward the spray. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice rich and grounding.
She went with him, letting the heat of the water and the warmth of his presence wash over her at once, her body and heart caught between comfort and ache.
The heat of the water cascaded over her shoulders, washing away the remnants of her tears from her scrunched face. Steam curled around them, softening the edges of the world until it felt like there was only this—her and Milo, cocooned together.
Willow let her eyes wander, drinking him in. The water clung to him in rivulets, sliding down his thick neck, tracing the ridgesof muscle across his abdomen, catching in the dark trail of hair that disappeared lower. Every inch of him seemed carved with purpose, forged by strength and discipline, but softened now in the intimacy of this moment.
She couldn’t stop herself from staring, from marveling at how someone could look both dangerous and inviting at once.
Milo caught her gaze and smiled, that slow, crooked expression that always undid her. He stepped closer, lifting a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her damp skin. “You’re staring,” he teased, as though he didn’t mind at all.
Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her body moving of its own accord. Their mouths met softly at first, tentative, the kind of kiss meant to soothe rather than ignite. She tasted water and warmth and him, steady and familiar.
But as his hand slid to cradle the back of her head and hers pressed against the solid plane of his chest, the kiss deepened. Not hurried, not desperate—just lingering, tender, as if both of them were afraid to break the fragile peace that had settled over them.
Willow sighed against him, her body melting under the spray, and Milo kissed her slower still, savoring, steadying her as the world slipped away.
38
MILO
Milo could hardly believe his eyes. This gorgeous, complicated, maddeningly perfect woman was his. After all the time he’d spent watching from a distance, calculating his every move, biding his time with the patience of a hunter waiting for the right moment, Willow was finally here.
In his arms. In his life.
