12. Milo
MILO
M ilo yawned, stretching the stiffness from his limbs with all the lethargy of a lazy lion. He understood her worry—family ties were hard to sever—but damn, if it wasn’t a hassle. If Willow didn’t have a sister, everything would’ve fallen into place with so much less resistance.
Instead, he’d lost a whole man to the Poppy detail, assigning someone full-time to keep eyes on her while Willow acclimated. It wasn’t permanent, just a temporary inconvenience until the bond was sealed. After that, the natural order would return.
The only issue was that Poppy could never be allowed to so much as glimpse the truth of what her sister’s life would eventually become. She would have to be kept at an arm’s distance from now on, and he knew that would prove challenging because of the bond between the sisters.
He watched her with the unblinking focus of a predator tracking prey.
Except this wasn’t prey. This was his mate, his destiny, and her silence was suffocating him.
The storm swirling in her eyes told him everything he needed to know—she was pissed, and maybe rightfully so. But someday, she’d understand.
“Are you hungry?” he asked again, forcing a calm he didn’t feel, his tone carefully pitched to be gentle, nonthreatening. Milo had captured and contained prisoners before. He wasn’t new to keeping people in captivity. But never like this—never someone meant to rule beside him.
This was her queendom, whether she knew it yet or not. While he may have dragged her thrashing to the throne, he would never presume to command a queen in her own court.
If she didn’t want to eat, he couldn’t make her.
“No,” she whimpered, voice cracking as she turned away from him.
The sound of her crying tore through him.
It was worse than any wound he’d taken in combat.
It sounded so much like a symphony of suffering, and every note drove into him like shrapnel.
Milo wanted to go to her, wanted to hold her. Comfort her. Love her.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she choked out, voice strangled and small. Her legs gave way as she pressed her shoulder against the wall and sank down, hands cradling her head. He stood there, helpless, watching the woman fated to be his fall apart because of his actions.
He crawled to the other side of the bed and dropped down into a crouch next to her.
She didn’t shift away or react. It wasn’t acceptance, but it wasn’t rejection either, and that was enough.
Milo moved slowly, carefully sliding his arms around her and drawing her away from the cold wall, pressing her into the warmth of his chest.
To his surprise, she didn’t resist. She collapsed into Milo like she’d been waiting for him to catch her. Her fists clutched his shirt, knuckles white with rage, her face buried in the crook of his neck as sobs racked her small frame.
“Willow,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “I’m so sorry, baby…” The words felt thin, useless, such a small fraction of what she deserved to hear. But he held her tighter, kissed the top of her head, and let her fall apart in his arms.
“I fucking hate you,” she screamed into his shoulder, raw and broken. “I hate you so fucking much.”
But she didn’t let go.
That was proof that somewhere beneath all that fury, she still felt it, too. And if she still felt it…
He still had a chance.
When her sobs finally quieted to hitching sniffles and the tension in her body eased, Milo stayed perfectly still.
It was only when her breathing settled into a deep, steady rhythm that he realized she’d fallen asleep.
He should have known she would crash—he’d read of her chronic fatigue in her medical file, and to say that these past twenty-four hours had been a lot was an understatement.
Milo winced, recognizing how poorly he had actually planned things. He just wanted her with him so badly, wanted her to see the truth and accept him for what he was; what they were.
He lifted her from the floor and laid her gently back on the bed. He pulled the blanket up over her small frame, brushing a few strands of hair from her cheek before pressing a kiss to her temple. For a moment, he just stood there, watching her sleep.
So peaceful
So vulnerable.
His .
He slipped from the room, silent as a shadow. If she woke and tried to run, it wouldn’t matter. He’d hear her.
Not that she’d get far. The tracker he’d injected into the nape of her neck saw to that.
***
Milo paused halfway down the stairs, one hand gripping the banister as Titan stepped through the front door.
He didn’t move—just leaned there, watching the younger wolf with glowing eyes.
Titan kept his gaze down, jaw tight, shoulders squared in a half-defensive posture.
He knew he was in trouble. He just didn’t know when it was coming.
Good. Let him anticipate it.
Milo wasn’t going to mete out the consequences just yet. That moment would come when Willow was present to witness it firsthand. She needed to see exactly how far he was willing to go to protect what was his.
“What’s the status on Poppy?” he asked, voice deep and clear.
Titan flinched at the sound, but answered quickly. “She’s not happy. Arlo said she’s… cooperating. Kind of? He already caught her trying to call the cops once.”
Milo rolled his eyes. “Let her. I’m not worried about it.” Almost every cop in a ten-mile radius wore a leash, and he was the one holding it.
The ones that he didn’t command knew better. None of them would risk the kind of fallout that came with crossing Milo Schwarz. They knew what he was capable of, and he didn’t mind reminding them if they forgot .
“Good. Report back to Lachlan. See if he’s got anything worth your time,” Milo said, waving a hand dismissively. Then, with a pause, “And get your homework done. We don’t need McGarvey to have any other reason to pay a visit.”
Titan’s mouth twitched, irritation surfacing. Milo saw it, but didn’t care.
“What?” he snapped. “You gonna tell me I’m not your real dad? That you’re a big boy in a master’s program now? Get the fuck out of my face, Titan.”
Wisely, the wolf turned and disappeared down the hall, teeth clenched but silent. Milo didn’t bother watching him go. His mind was already turning toward more important things, like the woman sleeping in his bed upstairs.
What was he going to do with her?
He continued down the stairs, jaw set and thoughts tangled. First order of business: beer. Second? Preparing everything for Willow when she woke. He wanted her wrapped in luxury, surrounded by every comfort he could offer. Whether she loved him or hated him, she would know she was cherished.
His queen would want for nothing.
Rounding the corner into the sleek, cavernous kitchen, Milo headed straight for the fridge and yanked open the door.
He grabbed the first long-neck bottle he saw, twisted the cap with a practiced flick, and took a long swig.
The bitter fizz rolled over his tongue just as a familiar scent crept in behind him.
“Yes, Lachlan. Can I help you?”
“The shipment’s here.”
“The semis?”
“Yeah. They’re waiting at the docks. Want Titan to oversee it?”
Milo nodded, taking another swig. “Yeah. Make it quick.”
Lachlan dipped his head and disappeared just as silently as he’d come. Milo stayed put, staring out the window over the sink.
Running this empire wasn’t the same as being in uniform. The military had been brutal, but at least there had been discipline and predictability. Out here, in this shadow world of wolves and weapons, of blood and backdoor deals? It was chaos.
Milo was just trying his damned best to stay ahead of the game.
He downed the last of the beer and reached for another. One of the more convenient perks of being a wolf was a sky-high tolerance. Alcohol didn’t affect them the same way it did humans.
Lachlan had once mentioned that it probably had something to do with their liver function, that they simply metabolized things far more quickly.
The doctor was always full of theories, ever the deep thinker, but never was able to go in-depth.
He was too busy elbow-deep in surgery or teaching resident doctors.
Out of everyone in the pack, Lachlan was probably the most decent, too smart and too good for this goddamn circus he called a pack.
He always kept his phone close. They all did, like most people, but for Lachlan, it wasn’t just a habit.
It was a necessity. The man was always on call.
It was bizarre to think about the duality of their world—one moment providing cover for a packmate in a warehouse shootout, the next racing to the hospital to save a child’s life.
Milo exhaled through his nose, grabbing another beer before heading out of the kitchen. There were calls to make, plans to set in motion, problems to solve. Being alpha meant that he was never off the clock, much like Lachlan.
The city never fucking slept.
So, neither did he.