Page 50 of A Wolf of War
Milo didn’t answer.
Titan’s eyes widened, and in the next heartbeat, he was gone—feet pounding across the lawn, beer bottle shattering against the deck. Willow startled, her head jerking up in time to see a blur of movement shoot toward the pool. She stood halfway, uncertain, heart suddenly racing.
Milo moved just as fast, a silent predator cutting across the yard with ease. He didn’t shift. He didn’t need to. Within seconds, he was gaining ground, his long strides eating the distance.
Titan rounded the pool, breath ragged, skidding in the grass.
But it was too late.
Milo caught him by the collar and yanked him back just before he reached the concrete.
She was out of her chair.
Willow launched herself across the yard, her bare feet pounding, fury bubbling in her chest. Within seconds, shewas between them, slipping into the narrow space.
Milo’s fist hovered midair, frozen. Titan flinched, face turned, breath held.
“Absolutely the fuck not,” she howled, voice sharp. She jumped to meet Milo’s eyes and shoved her book into his chest.
“Willow—”
Something inside her snapped. Every ounce of anger, every inch of exhaustion, every second of being caged; it all detonated at once.
She started barking.
Loud, sharp, hysterical barks, one after the other, exploding from her lungs in rapid bursts.
Milo blinked, stunned. He stumbled back, caught off guard as she advanced on him, still barking.
“Bark, bark, bark. That’s what you sound like,” she snarled. “Youneed to cool the fuck off.”
She shoved him.
Hard.
Milo had nowhere to go but backwards.
The water engulfed his form.
The book went flying after him.
Willow stood at the edge, chest heaving, heart pounding.
Milosurfaced in a smooth glide, water cascading down his broad shoulders as the ripples fanned out around him. He ran a hand over his face, slicking his darkened hair back, then turned to glance at the floating casualty of her wrath—her book.
Reaching out, he plucked it from the surface with two fingers on the spine, shaking it gently like a wet kitten, then turned it in his hands. His expression shifted from curiosity to something close to delight.
“You like Shakespeare?” he called out, a grin spreading.
Willow’s eye twitched. She had forgotten that he was familiar with Shakespeare.
She let out one final scream—this one less rage, more resignation—before spinning on her heel and storming away from the pool and toward the deck, fists clenched and shoulders tight. She didn’t care that everyone was watching.
The exhaustion was back, creeping in behind her fury like a tide rolling in after the storm. Her limbs felt heavy, her chest hollow. All she wanted now was the dark solitude of her room, the comfort of silence, and the soft embrace of blankets.
Fuck him and his stupid fucking Shakespearebullshit,she thought bitterly as she slipped in through the sliding door and headed upstairs.
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