13. Willow
WILLOW
W hen Willow woke again, it felt like her blood was once again made of cement. Every limb was heavy, her muscles sore from tension and disuse. She blinked against the sunlight filtering through the oversized bay window…
Bay window?
She didn’t have a bay window.
Reality slammed into her. The memories crashed down in waves—the hike, the wolves, Milo’s glowing eyes, the way he’d towered over her while she begged for her life.
Willow’s breath hitched, heart picking up speed until her pulse pounded in her ears.
She had cried in his arms, sobbed like a small child. He probably thought it meant something.
It didn’t. How could it?
Milo wasn’t just dangerous; he was deranged. And on top of that? Apparently, a supernatural creature. Briefly, she wondered if she had hallucinated all of it. Clearly, however, her surroundings disproved that hopeful theory.
Her hands trembled as she peeled back the blankets, slipping from the bed with slow, cautious movements. She crept toward the window, bracing herself on the frame as she peered outside. The view was deceptively serene—a sprawling garden behind a white picket fence, a gorgeous patio, grill, pool.
Beyond that, endless stretch of trees, standing silent and solemn.
She was well and truly fucked.
There was no way she was anywhere near the city limits.
She couldn’t see what was on the other side of the house, but something told her that even the driveway wouldn’t lead to freedom.
More than likely, it led to more of the same—isolation, control, and him.
Milo didn’t seem like the kind of man who made mistakes.
He wouldn’t have brought her anywhere she could escape from.
Willow’s breath hitched, chest rising and falling with all the force she could muster. Her muscles twitched from holding onto tension for far too long. The only thing keeping her upright now was adrenaline. At least she was still wearing her hiking clothes. That had to mean he hadn’t…
She swallowed hard, refusing to finish the thought.
And yet, her cheeks flushed deep red. The traitorous heat crawling up her neck was born from a knee-jerk reaction—from the thought of large hands gripping her waist, calloused fingers sliding lower, one pair of lips parting another. She pressed her palms to her burning face.
This was so wrong .
He had kidnapped her. He was keeping her here. She should be thinking about weapons and escape routes, and certainly not what his tongue could do if given the chance.
A sharp knock shattered the quiet, sending Willow’s heart into her throat. She barely had time to spin around before the door creaked open and Milo stepped inside like he belonged there.
“Hey, Willow,” he said gently, that maddening smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
She didn’t respond. Just leveled him with a glare, jaw clenched tight enough to crack rocks. She wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of a hello.
“Would you like a tour of your new home?”
The words hit her like an icy wall of water. Her spine stiffened. “My new home?” she echoed, scoffing softly in disbelief. Her voice was brittle, like it might shatter if she spoke any louder.
He either didn’t hear her or ignored her completely—both possibilities were on-brand.
“Come on,” he coaxed, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s get you out of here. Being locked up in a room like this isn’t good for you.”
Willow hesitated for only a second too long before stepping forward.
Something about his presence pulled at her, like gravity was suddenly a living thing with a name and a pulse.
His hand extended, patient and inviting, but she stopped short.
Her fingers longed to intertwine with his, and she hated herself for it.
She didn’t move to touch him.
Milo seemed to understand. His hand dropped quietly to his side. He turned and walked out of the doorway, motioning for her to follow.
***
The house was breathtaking, massive, and dripping in old-world grandeur. It had the decadent, haunting charm of estates built long before zoning laws and modern taste. Every corner she turned revealed extravagance, oil paintings, gilded frames, and impossibly tall ceilings.
Her fingertips skimmed along the smooth, polished banister as they descended the sweeping staircase.
“That’s the front door,” Milo said casually, gesturing toward the towering entryway. “So, this is the front of the manor. If you turn here…” he veered right, “you’ll find the kitchen. ”
Willow followed him warily, half expecting the floor to open beneath her, and she stopped short when they stepped into the room. Her breath caught in her throat.
The kitchen was a masterpiece. Sleek, stainless steel met dark wood and marble in perfect harmony. She was no stranger to little luxuries and had the handbags to prove it, but this was next-level. This screamed old money.
Wait, my bag.
“My bag,” she said, voice sharp and sudden. “And my phone. I want them.”
She crossed her arms, squaring her shoulders. She wasn’t sure if it made her look intimidating or just pissed off, but she’d take either at this point.
Milo hesitated. His brow twitched. “You can have your bag,” he said slowly, each word carefully weighed. “The phone’s another story.”
Willow scoffed, looking away before he could see her deflate. She hadn’t expected it to work, but it would have been nice if it did.
They stood in a loaded silence. Willow kept her arms crossed, brows furrowing as she worked through different avenues of escape. Playing along until she could make a run for it might be the best option on the table .
Before she could make a decision, Milo’s voice cut through the still-heavy air. “Lachlan, get in here.”
A redhead rounded the corner, looking more ready to scrub in for surgery than take part in a hostage situation. He was wearing green scrubs with yellow rubber ducks on them, a pair of light blue Crocs. His undereyes sagged with exhaustion.
“Hey, Willow, it’s so good to see you again,” he said, extending a hand like this was a formal meeting and not a waking nightmare.
She blinked, then hesitantly uncrossed her arms long enough to accept his offer. Lachlan’s grasp was confident, but gentle, like he knew how to hold fragile things without breaking them.
“I’m Lachlan,” he said, his bright smile crooked. “We already met, but uh, let’s not worry about that right now. What’s up, boss?” Lachlan asked, shifting his attention to Milo, who stood like a force just barely contained.
“Is Willow’s room set up?” Milo responded.
“Absolutely. I had Arlo organize the crew, and I oversaw everything until I was called into the hospital. Titan took over from there.”
“Great, thanks. ”
Her room? That must mean he didn’t expect her to share his bed… which was almost disappointing, much to her chagrin.
Lachlan gave Willow a brief, polite nod before turning to go, but Milo’s voice stopped him mid-step.
“Oh, and Lachlan?”
The redhead paused, glancing back at Milo over his shoulder.
“If you ever touch her again like that, I’ll break both your fucking hands.”
Lachlan didn’t flinch. If anything, his brows lifted with mild amusement, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile.
“Of course, Milo. My apologies.”
He slipped out of the room.
“That was absolutely psychotic,” Willow snapped, arms wrapping tight around herself. “You can’t treat people like that.”
Milo watched her in silence, something dangerous flashing in his dark eyes. Then he moved—slow, deliberate, like a predator who knew exactly how close he could get before his prey sensed danger.
He didn’t stop until he was in front of her.
With a gentleness that didn’t match the tension rolling off his body, Milo raised his hand and took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up until their eyes locked.
“You’re mine, Willow,” he said. “And I’ll have the hands of any man who forgets that. Understand me, and mind yourself accordingly.”
“I don’t belong to any man,” she whispered, chin held high even as her knees threatened to buckle. Their eyes locked like magnets, her breath hitching as she fought the urge to drop her gaze to his lips.
Milo’s smile was slow, a dangerous curve that didn’t reach his eyes.
“No,” he murmured. “You’re right. You don’t belong to a man, Willow.”
A heartbeat passed.
“After all, I am no man.”
The words stole the air from her lungs. She was trembling—not with fear, but with the brutal effort of keeping herself rooted, of not collapsing into the pull of him.
“No,” she said again, voice quivering like a string pulled too taut. “You’re not a man.”
Her lip curled, defiance flaring even as her body betrayed her with heat and need.
“You’re a monster.”
His expression didn’t change, but the flicker in his eyes said everything.