Page 25 of A Wolf of War
She swallowed hard, refusing to finish the thought.
And yet, her cheeks flushed deep red. The traitorous heat crawling up her neck was born from a knee-jerk reaction—from the thought of large hands gripping her waist, calloused fingers sliding lower, one pair of lips parting another. She pressed her palms to her burning face.
This was sowrong.
He had kidnapped her. He waskeeping her here. She should be thinking about weapons and escape routes, and certainly not what his tongue could do if given the chance.
A sharp knock shattered the quiet, sending Willow’s heart into her throat. She barely had time to spin around before the door creaked open and Milo stepped inside like he belonged there.
“Hey, Willow,” he said gently, that maddening smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
She didn’t respond. Just leveled him with a glare, jaw clenched tight enough to crack rocks. She wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of a hello.
“Would you like a tour of your new home?”
The words hit her like an icy wall of water. Her spine stiffened. “My new home?” she echoed, scoffing softly in disbelief. Her voice was brittle, like it might shatter if she spoke any louder.
He either didn’t hear her or ignored her completely—both possibilities were on-brand.
“Come on,” he coaxed, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s get you out of here. Being locked up in a room like this isn’t good for you.”
Willow hesitated for only a second too long before stepping forward. Something about his presence pulled ather, like gravity was suddenly a living thing with a name and a pulse. His hand extended, patient and inviting, but she stopped short. Her fingers longed to intertwine with his, and she hated herself for it.
She didn’t move to touch him.
Milo seemed to understand. His hand dropped quietly to his side. He turned and walked out of the doorway, motioning for her to follow.
***
The house was breathtaking,massive, and dripping in old-world grandeur. It had the decadent, haunting charm of estates built long before zoning laws and modern taste. Every corner she turned revealed extravagance, oil paintings, gilded frames, and impossibly tall ceilings.
Her fingertips skimmed along the smooth, polished banister as they descended the sweeping staircase.
“That’s the front door,” Milo said casually, gesturing toward the towering entryway. “So, this is the front of the manor. If you turn here…” he veered right, “you’ll find the kitchen.”
Willow followed him warily, half expecting the floor to open beneath her, and she stopped short when they stepped into the room. Her breath caught in her throat.
The kitchen was a masterpiece. Sleek, stainless steel met dark wood and marble in perfect harmony. She was no stranger to little luxuries and had the handbags to prove it, but this was next-level. This screamed old money.
Wait, my bag.
“My bag,” she said, voice sharp and sudden. “And my phone. I want them.”
She crossed her arms, squaring her shoulders. She wasn’t sure if it made her look intimidating or just pissed off, but she’d take either at this point.
Milo hesitated. His brow twitched. “You can have your bag,” he said slowly, each word carefully weighed. “The phone’s another story.”
Willow scoffed, looking away before he could see her deflate. She hadn’t expected it to work, but it would have been nice if it did.
They stood in a loaded silence. Willow kept her arms crossed, brows furrowing as she worked through different avenues of escape. Playing along until she could make a run for it might be the best option on the table.
Before she could make a decision, Milo’s voice cut through the still-heavy air. “Lachlan, get in here.”
A redhead rounded the corner, looking more ready to scrub in for surgery than take part in a hostage situation. He was wearing green scrubs with yellow rubber ducks on them, a pair of light blue Crocs. His undereyes sagged with exhaustion.
“Hey, Willow, it’s so good to see you again,” he said, extending a hand like this was a formal meeting and not a waking nightmare.
She blinked, then hesitantly uncrossed her arms long enough to accept his offer. Lachlan’s grasp was confident, but gentle, like he knew how to hold fragile things without breaking them.
