Page 45 of A Wolf of War
She leaned back slightly, arms crossed, gaze sharp as a blade. “Okay, but you’re a doctor. Can’t you just pay the bills? Why would you choose to engage with shit like that? You took an oath.”
Lachlan nodded once, slow and thoughtful.
“Technically speaking, yes. I could. I make morethan enough to live a clean life. As for the oath, I’m not in charge of executions.”
His voice was calm, but there was a heaviness behind it.
“The reality is that it’s not that simple. There are more moving parts than you know. If we pulled out—if Milo stepped away from the table—it wouldn’t just end. It would simply change hands.”
Willow blinked, her frown deepening.
“There’d be a massive power vacuum,” he continued steadily. “People would die. Innocents, mostly. And the wolves who’d take over?” He looked her dead in the eye, not a hint of apology in his tone. “You’d much rather it be us. I promise you that.”
Her attention was caught. “Why are the other guys so bad?”
Lachlan suddenly looked uncomfortable, shifting in his chair.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about. Milo will make sure of that.”
Willow wanted to dig deeper, press harder, ask the dozens of questions filling her mind. But the subtle shift in Lachlan’s posture told her everything; he was retreating behind his walls. Instead, she changed the subject.
“I always thought werewolves were monsters.”
That earned a barking laugh from Lachlan, bright and unguarded. His teeth flashed in the warm kitchen light, the sound startling in its sincerity.
“Well,” he said, still grinning, “there’s some truth to that lore, I’m afraid. Though it’s not pretty.”
Willow’s brow arched. “Oh?”
His smile dimmed just slightly, replaced with something more serious. “If you’re born a wolf, your body’s built for it. But if you’re bitten…” He shook his head. “There’s a risk. Some people don’t make it through the first shift. They get caught in between, trapped in a living hell. The pain, the instinct... it drives them mad.”
She felt her breath hitch, icy fingers of fear wrapping around her spine as a shiver rolled down her back.
Lachlan caught the change. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said quickly, voice gentle. “Milo would never risk that with you. And it doesn’t just happen from a bite. To pass on the gift, it has to be intentional. You have to be intending to pass it on. Accidental turnings aren’t really a thing.”
Willow exhaled, slow and shaky.
Well, she thought, gnawing nervously at her thumbnail,that’s a relief… I guess.
Lachlan’s pocket lit up, a sharp flash of green glowing through the thin fabric. A second later, a shrill series of beeps erupted, followed by frantic vibration. He reached in and pulled out a small pager—plastic, scratched at the corners, and clearly well-worn.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered, eyes scanning the message before flashing Willow an apologetic smile. “Work’s calling.”
Before she could say a word, he was gone, pushing off the counter and darting out of the room in a blur of motion that reminded her he wasn’t quite human.
The silence returned.
Willow sat still, the quiet pressing in on her like a weight. It was suffocating. The hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of a clock were the only sounds left to keep her company. For one absurd moment, she almost wished Milo would come stalking in just to break the stillness. At least his presence filled the room and gave her something to focus on.
With a long, heavy sigh, she drained the rest of her coffee and rose reluctantly. She rinsed both mugs and left them in the sink before turning back toward the entryway. There was nothing to do now. No one to talk to.
Sleep, then.
She could always go back to sleep.
22
MILO
