Page 16 of A Wolf of War
At this point, nothing else mattered but instinct,blood, and breath. The urge to shift thrummed in his bones, wild and unrelenting.
And still, he held the beast back.
The weight of the backpack pressed against Milo’s back, but he barely noticed it. Even loaded down with everything he’d packed to win her over, it was nothing against the strength of a wolf. Supernatural power had its perks.
The trail finally spilled them into a clearing, light slicing through the trees like a blade. A narrow waterfall cascaded over a jagged rock face, feeding into a slow-moving river that curved away from them, back into the woods. In the height of summer, this place was breathtaking—lush, blooming, and beautiful. But now, under the cold gaze of the full moon, it looked stripped of life, hollow and pale with a milky glaze.
It didn’t feel like a secret paradise.
It felt like a burial ground.
Milo knew he’d misstepped the moment he felt her body go tense behind him. The moon made everything sharper—her emotions echoed around him, each flicker of doubt or fear making him wince.
“Hey,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “I know it looks a little desolate. I didn’t think about the timeof year. Normally, this place is stunning.”
Willow let out a nervous laugh, brittle and tight. Still, she followed. Every step was hesitant, but she came with him all the same.
That willingness was what mattered.
When they were halfway to the waterfall, Milo swung the backpack off his shoulders and crouched beside it. He could feel her eyes on him, cautious, watching every move like he might pull out instruments of torture instead of the promised picnic.
“What?” he said, smiling as he unzipped the bag. “You don’t trust me?” His voice was light, teasing, laced with charm. But he was watching her closely. He needed to know the answer.
She didn’t respond, and he didn’t push. After all, the trust was almost implicit at this point. He didn’t require confirmation. Instead, he reached into the bag and pulled out the contents. First, a dark bottle of cherry wine, which he set carefully on the ground, then a folded blanket. He shook the blanket across the cool earth, then slipped off his shoes before stepping onto it.
Willow hesitated for a moment, then mirrored him, socked feet firmly on the fabric, moving like she was trapped somewhere between dream and instinct.
When she sank down onto the blanket beside him,legs stretched out in front of her and arms braced behind her, Milo inhaled deeply, feigning a sigh. Really, he was greedily drinking in her scent. The heady, intoxicating aroma of her arousal clung to the air, thick and sweet, turning his blood molten.
He knew her core was swollen with want by now, her body leading her to where she needed to be even if her mind still hadn’t caught up.
He reached for the bottle, pouring them both glasses of wine. Willow took hers without hesitation, downing a long sip. Milo watched with sharp eyes. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her wrist—casual, but electric.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and edged with disapproval. “Slow down, tiger. It’s not going anywhere.”
She looked at him with bedroom eyes, hiding behind her thick lashes. Then, with the ghost of a smirk, she lifted the glass again and tilted her head back, draining the rest in defiance of him.
The urge to drag her over his knee for disobedience was almost too much to resist.
But he didn’t.
Instead, his jaw flexed, the tension in his body barely restrained. He leaned in just enough for his voice to drop like velvet and steel.
“I’d behave myself if I were you, Willow.Goodgirls get nice things.”
She met his gaze, steady and intense. “And what do bad girls get?”
Milo didn’t answer.
He just let a slow, wicked grin barely split his lips, the tips of his elongated canines resting against the top of his bottom lip. She didn’t seem to notice them, instead gazing into his eyes.
“Are you hungry?” Milo asked, his touch feather-light as his fingers grazed her unfortunately clothed arm. Willow gave a slow nod. He reached into the backpack and pulled out an assortment of snacks—some were his favorites, others were the ones he’d seen her eat late at night through the cameras in her room.
“Oh, I love these!” she gasped, lighting up as he handed over a small charcuterie-style snack pack. The neatly divided sections held cheese, dried cranberries, nuts, and chunks of meat. She peeled the packaging with practiced ease, plucking one of each and popping the medley into her mouth.
Milo’s pulse jumped.
There was something intimate about watching her enjoy something so simple. Every little thing she did made him feel reverent, like she was art being slowly unveiled.
