19. Willow
WILLOW
H e had to be joking.
One minute, he was touching her with abandon—palming her heat, dragging her toward the brink.
The next, he was whistling under his breath while flipping pancakes like none of it had happened. Like she wasn’t still burning from the inside out.
Willow’s skin prickled. This version of him—the domestic, apronless house-husband—made her stomach twist. Not from fear, but from a far more dangerous attraction. She knew better than to let her guard down. Humanizing your captor was the first step toward losing yourself. And yet…
Those lips.
Those hands.
That voice in her ear, rough with hunger.
She clenched her jaw, biting back the heat that pooled low in her belly.
Willow set the containers down with enough force to lightly rattle the table.
Her fingers were locked around the syrup bottle like it might anchor her to reality.
When she heard the thud echo back at her, she closed her eyes and inhaled slowly through her nose.
No. He wasn’t worth the explosion simmering just beneath her skin.
She could survive this without falling apart.
A moment later, he entered like he hadn’t just pulled her apart in the kitchen—carrying a plate stacked with pancakes and a smug sense of satisfaction. He added two place settings to the table, as though it were a brunch date and not a meal with a woman he’d kidnapped.
Willow sank into the nearest chair, arms crossed tight over her chest. She didn’t bother looking at him. Not even when he cleared his throat like a host waiting for her thanks.
Fuck you, buddy, she thought.
Instead of pushing, he simply placed a plate in front of her and began stacking three fluffy pancakes onto it.
Willow sighed through her nose, snatching the tub of butter with a little more force than necessary.
She hated that he was getting his way. Again.
Every moment with him felt like a silent victory on his part, whether he said it or not.
Still, she knew better than to let spite win. Starving herself wouldn’t weaken him. It would only make her vulnerable, and she couldn’t afford that.
She needed her strength.
If she wanted even a chance at getting out of here, she’d need his trust first. That was going to be the tricky part .
“So,” Willow began, jaw tight, eyes fixed on her plate, “what do you actually do for work?”
She shifted in her seat, trying not to wince. Her body still pulsed from earlier, every nerve ending raw and agitated. Small talk was almost laughable under the circumstances, but she forced it out anyway. She could feel her swollen heat pressing into the seat beneath her.
Milo didn’t miss a beat. “You’re looking at it,” he said simply, slicing into his own stack. “My job is making sure the pack is cared for. That the business runs nice and smooth.”
“Business?” She looked up at him, her brows knitting. Something in the way he said it gave her pause.
He met her gaze evenly. “That’s right, sweetheart. We’re the pipeline. Anything coming into this city—guns, drugs, product of any kind—passes through us first. We make sure it gets where it needs to go.”
Willow’s stomach twisted, her appetite evaporating.
“So you’re the reason half the people in this city are suffering and addicted,” she said, voice sharp enough to draw blood. Her knife scraped across the plate as she cut into her food like it had personally wronged her .
“That’s one way to look at it,” Milo replied, utterly unfazed. “Or you could look at the fact that we ensure shit is clean to keep overdose rates down.”
She glared at her pancakes like they might turn into a weapon. “It’s fucking disgusting. Nothing you do to smooth it over is going to make it less so.”
Milo’s fork paused midair. He didn’t argue. Didn’t apologize. Just changed the topic.
“I have a surprise for you today. I think you’re going to like it.”
She glanced up at him, suspicious and guarded. She wasn’t sure where he was going with this, and she also wasn’t excited. She hated surprises as a rule, and especially when they came from a madman who was holding her against her will.
“Just trust me.”
Somewhere, deep down, she desperately wished she could.
***
Willow had swapped her pajamas for something better suited to the heat, a white racerback and jean shorts.
The days were growing warmer as spring faded slowly into summer, and the sunlight filtering through the windows only made her crave freedom more.
She longed for beach days—salt in the air, toes buried in warm sand, a drink sweating in her hand as she and her sister clinked glasses and drifted into their usual rhythm of easy laughter and deep conversation.
Poppy.
Her heart twisted. Just the thought of her sister sent a pulse of anxiety racing through her chest. Was she safe? Had Arlo hurt her? Was he kind? The not knowing was worse than being held captive.
Still, a small smile ghosted across her lips. Poppy wasn’t the type to go down easy. If anyone could give a werewolf hell, it was her sister.
He’d told her to be ready to leave as soon as possible, his voice crackling with barely contained excitement. That, more than anything, made her stomach twist into knots. Whatever had him this worked up couldn’t possibly end well for her.
Willow descended the stairs slowly, each step a silent protest. And then she paused, her breath caught halfway in her chest.
There he was.
Milo stood at the bottom, tall and broad and cut from shadow and sun, the light slashing across his cheekbones like an artist had sketched him into being. It wasn’t fair. He looked like a god dressed in plain clothing.
He glanced up, catching her stare. Her breath hitched. He smirked.
She huffed, turning her face away with a scowl. It’s not my fault he looks like that, she thought bitterly, willing her pulse to slow.
Willow all but ran down the rest of the steps, stopping at the bottom with crossed arms.
“Well?” she said expectantly,
“Come on. It’s a short car ride.”
***
Willow’s foot tapped against the floorboard, almost involuntarily, in time with the music thrumming from the speakers. Something aggressive, industrial—Hatebreed, maybe. She didn’t know the song, but the guttural vocals steadied her frayed nerves.
She was still skeptical of wherever they were heading and whatever he had planned once they arrived.
Milo gifted her silence, eyes trained on the blacktop, hands loose but assured on the wheel.
He didn’t press for conversation. Didn’t try to fill the space.
She was grateful. She had nothing to say to him, and the ache between her thighs was still a low, persistent throb that made thinking difficult.
The SUV shot down the highway like it owned the road. Milo wove through traffic with smooth, assertive movements, passing slower cars with a twitch of impatience. She watched him—the way he commanded the vehicle like it was an extension of himself—and couldn’t help but feel a faint flicker of envy.
Things would be so much easier if she could drive like this.
“Y’know, people are going to do drugs whether you like it or not,” Milo said, voice infuriatingly casual.
Willow’s brows lifted, her mouth parting. He couldn’t be serious.
Apparently, he was.
She didn’t answer right away—didn’t trust herself to. Instead, she let out a low, unimpressed hum, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. The restraint it took not to glance at him was monumental, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of her full attention.
“We should really be focusing on decriminalization and programs to help people who get addicted. There’s a market for it, Willow, and if we weren’t on top, there would be a lot more death. Trust me.”
His voice was quiet, but steady.
Willow kept her expression neutral, eyes still trained on the red sedan in front of them.
It would be so easy to believe him, to let the silk-soft cadence of his voice chip away at her resolve and soften her heart.
But she didn’t know if it was truth or manipulation, and that made all the difference.
And yet, beneath the mire of suspicion, she wanted to believe that this was the real him. Willow wasn’t going to tell him that, though. Let him wonder.
Let him work for her forgiveness.
The rest of the ride passed in loaded silence, tension hovering thick between them like a fog that wouldn’t lift.
Willow’s pulse thumped harder with every mile, quickening even more as Milo flicked the blinker and took the off-ramp with that same unnerving calm.
He didn’t say a word, but she could feel the anticipation rolling off him, steady and sure.
He navigated the winding roads of a quiet neighborhood, the kind where the trees stood tall and the sidewalks were cracked and buckling. Eventually, the narrow street ended in the entrance to a park—lush and sprawling, with winding trails that snaked through the green like veins.
And then she saw them.
Willow’s breath hitched, her chest tightening so suddenly she had to put a hand over her heart.
Of course.
Of fucking course.