Page 48 of A Wolf of War
He folded his hands behind his back, posture unnervingly elegant for someone who’d likely gutted a man in the last week.
“What I want,” McGarvey said smoothly, “is time. Time to let things settle. Time to get my people and territory in order again.” He arched an eyebrow. “Frankly, I think you could use the same.”
Milo didn’t respond, his expression unreadable.
McGarvey continued, voice low and persuasive. “You’ve been sloppy lately. Distracted. And it’s showing. Not very alpha of you.”
Titan tensed beside him, and Milo’s fists clenched.
“I’m warning you, McGarvey…” he growled.
“Alright, alright,” McGarvey chuckled, tone light, amused. “But you do need to tread carefully.”
His smile dropped.
“Take the deal, Milo, or we all bleed.”
Milo stared McGarvey down, jaw tight, muscles coiling beneath his shirt like a trigger primed. Every instinct in his body screamed to reject the offer, to bare his teeth and show that no one—especially not McGarvey—could dictate his next move.
But instinct didn’t build empires. Strategy did.
He gave a slow, curt nod. “Fine. We’ll stick to our parts of town. You do the same. No skirmishes. No overreaching.”
McGarvey’s grin returned like a mask being slidback into place. “Smart man.”
Milo turned on his heel without another word, Titan falling into step beside him. They moved with purpose, each footfall echoing through the cavernous building. The silence between them was thick until they pushed through the front doors and stepped into the cold air, the city lights glittering against the black water in the distance.
Only then did Titan speak, rubbing the back of his neck and exhaling hard.
“That guy is such a dick,” he muttered. “Worst homework I’ve ever had in my life. And it’s not even subtle. He gave me a twenty-page paper on power struggles in hierarchical systems—like he’s not talking about the packs.”
Milo snorted, unlocking his car and tossing Titan a look over the roof.
“Don’t flunk.”
“I’d rather get shot.”
23
WILLOW
Sleep hadn’t come easily. By the time morning rolled around, Willow had climbed out of bed with a new mission, determined to salvage whatever control she could. If she couldn’t escape yet, she could at least stop wallowing and start thinking clearly.
She decided she needed sunlight on her skin, needed proof the world still existed beyond the walls of Milo’s carefully constructed kingdom.
She ended up barefoot on the back patio, the light warming her arms as she settled into one of the Adirondack chairs with a tired sigh and a book she had snagged from a shelf she’d come across.
The late afternoon sun slanted across the back porch, washing the boards in smearing golden puddles. Her knees were drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins, a book held against her leg. Her eyes drifted across the sprawling backyard—first to the neat little garden surrounded by a low, white fence, then to the still blue surface of the pool. The place was so peaceful that it was offensive.
It didn’t feel like a prison right now.
And yet, she was still a captive.
The soft breeze teased at the hem of her white sundress, pulling a few strands of hair across her cheek.She didn’t brush them away. She didn’t move at all. Stillness had become a sort of armor lately—if she stayed quiet long enough, maybe her thoughts would too.
But no such luck.
Milo lived in her head like a ghost, lingering in the darkest parts of her mind, whispering things she didn’t want to hear. The shape of his mouth, the strength in his hands, the tenderness behind the violence—it all sat heavy in her memory. Worse than any one moment was the confusion it left behind. She didn’t want to want him. She didn’t want to like him.
