15. Willow
WILLOW
W illow scanned the room, wide-eyed and silent. She took in the layout, marking exits, trying to suss out weak spots. It wasn’t something that was second nature to her. In fact, she was rarely an observant person.
But in this situation, she’d have to be.
There had to be a weak point. A vent, a cracked window latch, a door with a faulty hinge. Something. Milo wasn’t sloppy, but no one was perfect.
The room itself was beautiful. Every inch was tailored to her comfort, curated down to the oils in the diffuser and the little bird pattern on the bedding. That just made it feel colder, because it seemed so calculated. He didn’t do this just to be kind. He did this to win her over.
Her mind was still spiraling, trying to compute the impossible and find her footing on ground that kept shifting beneath her.
She swayed where she stood, knees aching, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Everything hurt, physically, emotionally, existentially. She didn’t want to sleep. She didn’t want to let her guard down, but she didn’t think she had a choice.
The bed loomed, sorely tempting in its softness, its promise of rest. She hated how badly she wanted to sink into it. Hated more that she knew she would. But it was just for a little while. Just long enough to rest her body.
Willow walked over, climbed in, and pulled the blankets tight around her trembling frame.
She had to rest.
Because war was coming.
And she needed to be ready.
***
Willow woke to dusky light filtering through the bay window’s frosted panes, gold and gray painting long, dappled shadows across the floor. Her eyes opened slowly, lashes fluttering as she blinked away the remnants of uneasy dreams of beasts, darkness, terror.
Every part of her begged for more rest. The ache in her bones, the weight behind her eyes, that warm, sleepy urge to roll over, pull the covers high, and let her energy replenish.
But she didn’t have time for that.
Willow exhaled hard through her nose and pushed herself up. Her muscles protested with every movement. Even so, she rolled her shoulders, stretched out her legs, and planted her feet on the cool hardwood floor .
Her eyes swept the room again, sharper this time. The shadows were longer now, every corner darker. Every potential exit was still sealed tight. It was perfectly constructed to be a beautiful prison.
And she was the inmate.
Willow stood. Her pulse pounded low in her throat, a steady rhythm that matched her resolve.
She didn’t care how many men he had. She didn’t care how far off the grid he’d taken her, or how hopeless it looked.
Where there was a will, there was a way, and hers was engraved in iron.
But as her mind worked through every possibility, every crack, every weak point in the house’s defenses, one truth rose to the surface with grim finality. This wasn’t going to end without blood.
Willow had never been a violent person. Kindness came naturally, and she was an unrepentant people pleaser. Violence had always felt crude by comparison, loud and uncivilized. The last resort of men who didn’t know how to regulate themselves.
But this place didn’t speak the language of peace. If she was going to survive, it was time to learn the rhythm of war.
She wasn’t vicious by nature, but nature could be rewritten. She would peel away her softness like a second skin, let her loving heart harden in the face of his madness.
No, Willow had never been a violent person.
But she could now see that she was perfectly capable of becoming one.
Willow combed the room with the eyes of a captive, not admiring, but simply assessing.
She ran her fingers along the window frame, checking for hidden latches or locks.
Nothing. Reinforced glass. The bay window was decorative, but still practical.
Naturally. Her attention moved to the walls, the floorboards, even the vent covers—anything that might offer an edge, a crack or an oversight.
She padded into the en suite bathroom next, dazzled by the size of it. Marble countertops, a rainfall shower, a clawfoot tub, a multitude of features far out of her tax bracket.
Willow shook herself from the moment of admiration. Now wasn’t the time.
She opened drawers and rifled through cabinets, finding only practical necessities. It was nice to know she would want for nothing, however, and that she wouldn’t be forced into conversation just to ask for them.
Until it hit her .
There weren’t any tampons.
Willow flushed so hard she could feel the heat in her face. And then another, significantly more horrifying thought dawned on her. Having to ask her captors for tampons or pads was humiliating enough… but what if she didn’t even need to ask?
She wanted to vomit.
Would they be able to smell it?
She stood frozen in the middle of the bathroom, trying not to spiral, but the memory slammed into her like a freight train—Milo, casually remarking on her soaked panties with a confidence that hadn’t registered until now. At the time, she’d thought it was just a lucky guess.
But, no.
He could smell her getting hot for him.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, pressing her hands to her cheeks in horror. That meant all of them could. Every werewolf in the fucking house could likely smell when she was...
She wanted to drop dead.
And then, a knock.
She rushed out of the bathroom and managed to get back to the bed. Before she could say a word, however, the door cracked open, and Milo’s voice followed. “Are you decent?”
“Yeah,” she croaked, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat, but before she could try again, he was already inside. The door clicked shut behind him with that same careful, calculated precision he always carried.
Oh, right, she thought bitterly. Super hearing. Of course he heard me.
His presence filled the room like smoke, spreading out to fill the space, curling inside her lungs until her breath caught in her throat. He looked good. Even dressed in a black shirt and dark jeans, sleeves pushed to the elbows, Milo was mouthwateringly handsome.
Willow’s gaze lingered for a second too long on the bulge of his biceps before she forced herself to look away. Her mind had snagged on a detail that she had just remembered—he had knocked.
He’d also asked if she was dressed.
Those were odd choices for a kidnapper who was obsessed with her.
Milo held her gaze lightly, like she was liable to bite. Willow didn’t give him the satisfaction. She stayed quiet, arms crossed, flexing her jaw, eyes darting between him and the floor.
He shifted, clearly expecting resistance and not quite knowing what to do with her silence.
Finally, she spoke.
“So, how long do you plan on keeping me here?”
Milo didn’t even blink. “As long as I need to.”
The answer made her grind her teeth. Pushing back was pointless.
“And what about my sister?” she snapped. “What are you doing with her? She’s disabled, Milo. She needs me.”
His brow lifted slightly, but his face stayed unreadable, carved from stone. “She’s fine. I’ve assigned Arlo to keep her company.”
Willow’s lip curled. “Assigned?”
“They’re getting along great,” he added, with a nonchalance that made her stomach turn. “I promise.”
Like they were just playing house. Like none of this was completely insane.
“What if he… changes, or whatever, and eats her?” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up.
“That’s not really how that works.”
“Then why did that red one try to kill me?”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, dark stubble scratching against his palm. “Titan’s a pup,” Milo said, voice low. “His prey drive was activated. ”
“But I was in danger,” Willow shot back. “And Poppy could be, too.”
“I’m not going to hurt your sister,” he replied, quieter this time, like he was trying not to snap. “And neither is Arlo. I’d stake my life on that.”
She scoffed. “Big promises from someone who kidnapped me.”
Milo’s eyes flickered gold in the light of the sun’s dying throes, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “You have every right to hate me right now. But I am trying to keep you both safe.”
“Safe from what?” she demanded, stepping closer. “Certainly not from you.”
Willow’s breath caught. For a moment, neither of them moved. They were just two people on opposite ends of a battlefield that only one of them understood.
Finally, he spoke. “Please, Willow, just come eat.”
She stood there for a moment before she began moving toward him. Willow knew she needed to eat, even if such a standard thing would feel so abnormal in these conditions.
***
The entire pack was present, save for Mr. Country Club, and so was enough food to feed a small army.
As Willow and Milo stepped into the dining room, Lachlan and Titan were mid-argument, voices low and clipped, clearly discussing something urgent.
But the moment they entered, the conversation stopped on a dime.
Both men turned toward them, masks slipping into place like soldiers caught off-duty.
“Hey, you two. I hope you’re hungry,” Lachlan said, offering a crooked smile. His blue-green eyes sparkled with a kind of effortless charm that made her uneasy. Too friendly. Too normal.
The table was overflowing, plated high with dishes she knew and loved. Comfort foods, indulgences, it was all there. Willow shivered, arms wrapping tight around herself. He must have been watching her longer than she realized.
She should’ve run the second he said her name without her having mentioned it. Instead, she was here, a prisoner served her favorite meal. It felt so much like a death row nicety.
“You have to eat first, Willow,” came a Milo’s low voice to her left, “It’s a sign of respect. The alpha’s mate always eats first. ”
Feeling acutely out of place—and cringing inwardly at being called his mate—Willow moved toward the table, hand trembling as she reached for a plate.
The scent of the food was rich and overwhelming, and though her stomach growled traitorously, the rest of her was too tightly wound to feel real hunger. Every bite would taste like ash.
She let her stomach take over. A cautious scoop of shepherd’s pie. A spoonful of creamy potatoes au gratin. A slice of bittersweet cranberry sauce. Before she realized it, the plate was nearly full, her body betraying her again by reaching for comfort where her heart felt none.
By the time she made it to an empty seat at the long dining table, she wasn’t sure if she was dreading the meal or quietly grateful for the distraction it offered.
Maybe both.