18. Milo
MILO
H e woke to birdsong.
Not the frantic kind that accompanied early dawn, but something softer and slower. Like the world itself had taken a breath and exhaled just for him. Milo’s eyes blinked open, heavy with sleep, and a rare, lazy smile tugged at his lips.
Today felt right.
There was a stillness in the house that eased his nerves. Lachlan was elbow-deep in a surgical shift. Titan had been sent off on a glorified errand with vague instructions and even vaguer directions—mostly because Milo had been in the mood to fuck with him.
The pack was scattered.
Which meant…
It was just him.
And her , of course.
He stretched, muscles rolling beneath his skin like shifting earth.
Milo wasn’t just brute strength—he was power made elegant, violence tempered by discipline.
Flexibility was a quiet weapon, one honed as mercilessly as his aim.
No wasted motion. No unnecessary bulk. Everything about his body was curated to perfection.
Slipping from beneath the covers, he padded toward the bathroom.
The mirror greeted him with the face of a man sculpted by war and trauma, and he met his own gaze with a grim acknowledgement.
Overpriced electric toothbrush in hand, he ran through the motions with discipline.
Grooming wasn’t vanity. It was part of the ritual. Another layer of control.
Once finished, he dressed in his uniform of choice—dark jeans, black t-shirt, bare feet on hardwood floors.
Then he made his way to the kitchen.
He had a mate to feed.
***
The kitchen glowed in the early light, golden beams spilling across the counters. The polished granite reflected it back in warm brilliance, casting soft shadows that danced with the promise of a new day. Milo paused at the threshold, hand braced against the doorframe, and let it wash over him.
For just a second, he allowed himself the indulgence of a fantasy.
Willow, standing barefoot by the stove, one of his shirts draped over her. Her hair tousled from sleep, her laughter curling through the room like smoke. A spatula in one hand, a rounded belly cradled by the other—swelling with his child.
The image took his breath.
It was primal, the kind of need that didn’t come with logic or restraint. Just the unrelenting drive to claim, to keep, to build. Milo’s breath caught as a sharp bolt of arousal struck him low, hunger twisting inside him like a blade. His cock twitched.
Shaking the image from his mind, he crossed the threshold and made a beeline for the fridge.
It wasn’t just Willow distracting him. Wolves weren’t made to be alone.
Without his second at his side, Milo felt the shift in his center of gravity.
Arlo was his anchor, his closest friend, his tether to reason when everything else tilted off-axis.
Watching his best friend from afar, Milo realized just how much of his own stability was tied up in the man. Distraction was necessary—productive distraction.
He knew her preferences down to the last detail.
Sweet coffee. Sweeter breakfast. Pancakes drenched in maple syrup, buried under a mountain of whipped cream.
Milo pulled the ingredients for pancakes and got to work with practiced ease.
Eggs cracked, flour measured, butter melted.
By the time he was folding in chocolate chips, the iron hot and hissing, he sensed her .
If he’d been shifted, his ears would have swiveled backward. Even in his human form, he didn’t need to look. His senses told him everything.
Bare feet on the stairs.
Tentative footsteps.
And the scent, God, the scent hit him like a freight train. Hot, sweet arousal thick in the morning air. His jaw clenched, fists tightening around the bowl. He had to force himself to loosen his grip before the glass broke.
He heard her creeping across the kitchen floor, each step cautious but far from silent to his attentive ears. The gentle scrape of metal against cotton made his grin bloom slow and wicked. A flying pan was his guess.
Adorable.
Milo didn’t even pause.
In one fluid motion, he turned, caught her wrist in his calloused palm, and spun her into his arms. His other arm coiled tight around her waist, anchoring her to his chest where she belonged.
She gasped, but didn’t resist.
He leaned in, breath brushing her lips, their foreheads nearly touching. His voice was a low, rumbling whisper that hung like a noose in the space between them.
“Planning to help me get some more beauty rest before breakfast, sweetheart?” he murmured, amusement and hunger braided thick in his tone. “That’s one way to keep a man interested.”
For a breathless moment, time stilled.
They hovered there, suspended in dangerous electricity, her chest rising and falling against his.
Willow’s breath came in shallow pulls, her thighs clenching as desire seemed to war with obstinacy.
Her eyes were barely open, dark lashes fluttering, and a flush crawled its way up the column of her exposed neck like a secret she couldn’t hide.
Metal clattered to the floor.
The pan slipped from her fingers.
He released her wrist, only to slide his hand up the back of her neck. His fingers wove into the hair at her nape, grounding her, guiding her.
When their lips met, it was a ghost of a kiss—soft, searching, careful.
But that caution couldn’t survive the spark between them roaring into something all-consuming.
The moment she melted into him, Milo devoured her.
The kiss turned hungry, greedy, punishing.
He deepened it, his tongue brushing past her lips to dance with hers in a slow, claiming rhythm.
A quiet growl of satisfaction rumbled in his chest—she was still fighting for control, even now. It made him want her more.
The hand that cradled her neck stayed gentle, but his other one slid down, resting at the curve of her thigh. Willow’s breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping as she shifted closer, her body pressing into his like she couldn’t help it.
He knew what she was asking for without words. Still, he wasn’t one to give in so easily.
But she was being good. For once.
His palm slid gently over her heat, holding her there, and he murmured against her lips, voice husky and low, “This what you’re after?”
Willow’s reply was breathless, her voice trembling with need. “ Yes …”
He smiled again, dark and knowing, and he kissed her again.
“Too fucking bad.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed and breathless, stunned by the sudden loss of contact. As Milo withdrew his hand, her jaw tightened, disbelief curdling into fury. Her expression twisted into ferocity—eyes blazing, lips curled, a snarl spreading on a face far too delicate for such anger.
The fire in her eyes only sharpened his hunger. It thrilled him, the idea of dragging her to the floor, of earning her surrender the only way his wolf understood—through dominance, through possession, through force she’d come to crave. He could already picture it.
But it wasn’t time. Not yet.
“I hate you.”
Milo’s grin was all teeth. He couldn’t hold back a laugh as she spun on her heel and stormed toward the dining room, the scent of her dripping pussy trailing in her wake like perfume. But she didn’t leave. Despite her rage, the promise of her favorite foods had been enough to keep her close.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was something else that made her stay.
Milo turned back to the stove, laser-focused, resuming his quiet mission of feeding his mate. Not just because she needed strength, but because he wanted her whole—body, mind, and spirit. Today would require all three.
The last pancake landed on the top of a stack when he heard the sharp clip of her footsteps. She stomped to the fridge like a woman on a warpath, grabbing a bounty—maple syrup, butter, whipped cream—and stormed back to the dining room.
Even when she was spoiling for a fight, she still took initiative. Still made herself useful.
She was infuriated, no doubt.
But she was also, at heart, endlessly good in a way that he was endlessly not.