11. Willow
WILLOW
W illow woke like she was rising from deep water—slow, heavy, limbs like liquid lead.
It wasn’t pain she felt. It was more like the blood in her muscles had been replaced with a substance both sluggish and uncooperative.
She blinked against the weight of her eyelids, lashes fluttering as the world came into focus by maddeningly slow degrees.
Her fingers twitched. Then curled. Uncurled. Good . At least she could move.
And then, she heard it.
Him .
“Willow, baby… can you hear me?”
The words rippled through her, like a disturbance across a pond.
They were golden and honeyed, wrapping around her like a promise that things would be alright.
Her lips tugged upward as if on their own.
The sensations were foreign but somehow comforting.
Just hearing him was like being kissed by sunlight in the height of spring, a gentle reminder that the cold was coming to an end.
The warmth that bloomed in her chest made her want to weep with elation.
“She’s still high as hell, Milo.”
“No shit, Titan.”
“He’s trying to help, Milo.”
“Yeah? He can help himself to shutting the fuck up, Arlo.”
A laugh burst from her chest, light and breathy. It tumbled from her lips, the sound unfiltered and free. When her eyes finally peeled open, the first thing she saw was him—Milo, crouched beside her.
She smiled.
And then she remembered.
Willow’s face crumpled, the fragile threads holding her together snapping. Her heart plummeted, free-falling past her ribs, out of her back, and straight through the earth beneath her. Panic clawed like a wild animal up her throat, and her breathing turned jagged.
When Milo reached for her, she flinched, arms shooting out in a frantic attempt to shove him away.
Her eyes brimmed with tears, which spilled over hotly as she fought against his touch—and against herself.
Because despite everything, despite the fear of what he was capable of doing, all she wanted was to collapse into him.
To be held.
To be safe.
To be his .
The thought made bile rise in her throat, coating her mouth with an acrid tang .
“Willow, it’s okay, my love,” Milo murmured, his voice soft, hands open like he was praying for her forgiveness, or begging for her surrender.
“Stay… stay the f-fuck away from me,” she slurred, whatever drug they gave her still tangling up her tongue. It was also fogging her mind, but not enough to forget who he was.
Or more importantly, what he was.
Her first thought—ridiculously, irrationally—was, Where’s my bag?
Then, regret hit like a hammer. The Taser.
The mace. She hadn’t even tried to use them.
Not that she thought that they would’ve made a difference against giant wolf monsters masquerading as men, but still.
Maybe it could’ve bought her a few more seconds. Now, she’d never know.
“Poppy. Oh my God. Poppy,” she gasped, the name tumbling out in a panicked exhale as she jolted upright.
The world immediately splintered into a kaleidoscope of pain and shooting stars. Hands caught her, bringing her back to balance. One pressed firmly between her shoulder blades, the other wrapped gently around her arm.
“Easy, baby. Lay back. You need to rest. Your sister’s safe. She knows where you are.”
“Get off,” Willow whimpered, the fight in her voice weakened, but still there.
She gave a feeble shake of her head, heart splintering all over again.
She didn’t understand why it hurt so much.
There had been little to nothing between them—just fleeting touches, a handful of flirtatious texts, and that unspoken pull that had tethered them from the start.
It shouldn’t have felt like betrayal.
But it did.
“I trusted you, and you lied to me,” she breathed, her voice thin and breaking, head bowed as tears slipped down and dripped silently off the bridge of her nose.
“I didn’t lie, Willow,” Milo said softly, eyes tracking every tremble of her body. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“Same fucking thing,” she snapped, her words raw with pain.
Willow’s thoughts were clearing, but her body remained weighed down by exhaustion. Despite herself, she relaxed against him, her temple pressing to his chest, as if her body hadn’t been able to keep pace with her mind’s rage.
“There you go, baby,” he whispered, easing her down with careful hands, voice warm and slow like a lullaby, “Just rest.”
As his hand started to slip away from hers, she reached out for him, fingertips grazing his skin.
“Don’t go,” she murmured, already sinking into unconsciousness.
And then she was gone—drifting in the dark, wrapped in the arms of the man who had shattered what she knew of reality.
***
The next time Willow woke, it was to the steady thrum of a heartbeat. She was curled against Milo, tucked into the curvature of his body like she had always belonged there. Not quite face-to-face—he was too tall for that—but close enough to hear his soft, rhythmic breathing.
I hate you, she reminded herself bitterly, even as her fingers decided to disobey, rising to trace the edge of his jaw.
His was the kind of jawline artists obsessed over—structured, expressive, the type you sketched in charcoal and then blurred at the edges with the tips of your fingers.
Under his thick stubble, she could see the lines beneath, sharp and devastating.
The moment her fingertips made contact, Milo’s eyes shot open.
At first, there was confusion… then recognition, and then a quiet, soul-deep smile that made her chest ache.
His gaze locked with hers, and everything else fell away.
Something inside her stirred, reckless and wanting.
She needed to lean in and kiss him—to find out what he tasted like.
“Good morning,” he murmured, leaning in to nuzzle the crown of her head, his breath warm against her hair.
Willow froze. Her eyes shut tight, as if she could will away the rush of heat blooming low in her belly. Something hard was pressing into her thigh, and just the thought of his cock had her clenching around what was inside her—regrettably, nothing.
“That’s not my dick. It’s my gun.”
“Your fucking what?”
“Ex-military, baby,” he said, like that explained everything.
She didn’t have the energy to ask why a werewolf would even need a gun.
Instead, she slowly peeled herself away from him, like prying herself off of something sticky, until she’d made it to the other side of the bed.
Once there, she sat up, trying to gather herself.
Trying not to think about how much her body missed him already.
“Are you hungry?”
Willow glanced back at Milo, who was still curled lazily on his side, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had just kidnapped her. She didn’t answer. Instead, she slipped off the bed, her bare feet sinking into a plush carpet.
She turned slowly, taking in her surroundings with the caution of someone waking up in a stranger’s skin.
The room was large. Luxuriously so. A grand fireplace dominated the wall across from the bed, and to her left, a wide bay window looked out over a landscape cloaked in darkness.
It was beautiful in the way old ruins were, silent and unsettling.
What unsettled her more, though, was the absence of personal effects.
No books, no art, no signs of the man who lived within these walls.
It was sterile, a holding cell. Wrapping her arms around herself, Willow’s eyes swept the space, her heart beating audibly as she began quietly cataloguing possible exits.
If Poppy thought Willow liked things minimal, she’d probably throw a fit after taking a gander at this stark, soulless place .
“My sister will be looking for me,” she announced, squaring her shoulders like she’d just cracked the code to fixing her situation.
Milo didn’t even blink. “Your sister knows where you are,” he said calmly, “and she knows better than to come looking.”
“You don’t know my sister,” she shot back, chin lifting.
“No,” he admitted, his voice like velvet laced with venom, “but I do know how to have footage fabricated, and I know exactly where to cut when I want to get to the heart of something. Or someone.”
Her mouth clamped shut, breath catching in her throat. The chill that swept through her veins wasn’t from the surroundings—it was the slow realization that she was likely in way over her head.
And she didn’t know if, from here, she would sink or swim.