Page 18 of A Wolf of War
Before she could ask, two more wolves stepped from the shadows—one with a striking golden coat, the other a bold, burnished red. For a split second, she marveled at their beauty. They exuded the quiet danger of apex predators, their movements elegant and menacing all at once.
She felt a pang when he said, “These aren’t wolves, Willow. They’re my family.”
That word, family, struck a chord. She knew the aching hollowness of losing everyone you loved. For a second, the fear relaxed into something softer.
“Do you have any living relatives?” she asked, her voice quiet, understanding his need to cling to these animals in the face of having nobody else.
“No, Willow,” Milo said, looking her dead in the eye. “These are my living relatives. They’re not normal wolves.”
The smile she’d been wearing went lopsided. She searched his face for some trace of a joke, something that would indicate a thread of sanity still within him, but there was nothing. Just sincerity, raw and unnerving. Her gaze flicked to the wolves, lined up like soldiers, watching her with eerie stillness.
“Maybe it’s better if we show you,” Milo murmured.
The black one, the largest, began to shimmer. A faint, supernatural glow radiated around him, like the moon itself had shone a spotlight. Her eyes widened as its bones bent and stretched, its spine elongating, its frame morphing. In a few seconds, a fully clothed man stood where the wolf had been.
And for the second time that night, Willow screamed.
She felt the world tilt, her vision narrowing to a pinpoint as the shock overrode everything else in her system. A thick wave of nausea rolled through her?—
And then she doubled over and puked onto the blanket beneath her feet. Milo was at her side inan instant, hand firm and comforting on her back, murmuring to her as she gagged and spat, tears stinging her eyes.
There was no way this was real, that any of this was happening.
Her entire body trembled, muscles locking up in the grip of surging adrenaline. Her ears rang, muffling the soothing nonsense Milo tried to feed her. It didn’t matter—he was the one who had shattered her world in the first place. Whatever the hell this was, he was the cause. Now nothing would ever be the same again.
“Please, Milo,” she whispered hoarsely, turning to him with wide, panicked eyes. “I won’t tell anyone. I swear. Just let me go, and we’ll pretend like none of this ever happened, okay? I probably… I probably won’t even remember in the morning.”
Even as the words left her mouth, she knew how pathetic they sounded. She was grasping for straws in a situation that had spun wildly out of control. Willow risked a glance at the man—the wolf—still standing where he’d shifted. His arms were crossed now, posture patient and unbothered. He looked oddly regal in a dark sweater, jeans, and polished oxfords, like he’d stepped out of a country club.
“I told you she’d take it poorly if you did it like this.”
The gruff voice cut through the silence—Mr. Country Club. It snapped her back into the moment, and with horrifying clarity, Willow realized this had been planned ahead of time. Not spontaneous. Planned.
But why?
Whyher?
What kind of lunatic looked at a girl he’d just met and decided that he would reveal that monsters were real and that they wanted to date her?
“She’s fine, Arlo. Everything is fine. Right, Willow?” Milo’s voice, which had been steady and sure just seconds ago, faltered on her name. It sounded more like a plea than an inquiry, and that alone made her want to scream again. Because no, she was not fine. Nothing about this was fine. It was cosmically, irreparably not fine.
“I think I want to go home,” she whispered. Her voice didn’t feel like it belonged to her. Everything had slowed down—the sounds, the air, even the way the soft moonlight filtered through the trees swaying all around them—as if the world was sinking underwater, and she was just watching it all happen from the shoreline.
The uncomfortable detachment settled in, constricting her like a serpent coiling tight. But Willow wasn’t in her body anymore. She was somewhere else,floating, watching herself freeze up and shut down. Dissociation crept in like an old friend.
“Willow, it’s okay. This was always meant to be, sweetheart?—”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” she snapped, voice cracking as she stumbled backward. It felt wrong coming from his mouth.
“Willow, don’t run?—”
“Don’t fucking— I just— I need to go, okay? I have to go.”
Then she turned. Bolted. Straight for the treeline like a desperate deer, blind panic guiding her flailing limbs. Behind her, Willow heard a desperate shout. A glance over her shoulder rocked her to her core. The blonde wolf was tearing after her, eating up the terrain between them.
She screamed, desperate and feral. Just as Willow crashed into the forest, the world exploded behind her—fur, fangs, and fury. The red wolf had tackled the blonde, snarling and snapping, pinning him to the ground.
And Milo?
