21. Willow
WILLOW
S he curled into herself, arms wrapped tight around the pillow that had come to stand in for everything she’d lost. Fat, silent tears slipped down her pink cheeks, soaking into the fabric without ceremony.
It wasn’t late, but her body had surrendered to the bone-deep exhaustion of repeated heartbreak.
Every limb felt weighted. Every breath was a quiet surrender.
Sleep took her again, as it had so often lately. There was nothing else to do. No job to tend to. No emails to check. No life to return to.
Maybe he did me a favor by deciding to keep me here, she thought bitterly.
She let go, falling fast and hard into the quiet chasm of sleep.
***
Willow woke with a start, disoriented and too warm, her cheek sticking uncomfortably to the pillow where a line of drool had dried.
Her limbs felt heavy, her body sluggish, like she’d been pulled from the wreckage of a bad dream.
The sheets were tangled around her legs, and her skin was damp with sweat.
She stretched gingerly, letting each group of muscles loosen their knots, joints popping in protest. As her arms reached overhead, her wrists brushed against the headboard—no restraints, not this time, but her body remembered.
She’d dreamed that he had been here. Between her legs.
Moaning. Tongue twisting inside her like he had all the time in the world and a calling to answer.
She clenched her thighs reflexively, heat blooming in her core and rising to her cheeks.
And then the guilt crept in.
The reminder that she was still a prisoner here. Still in his territory, under his roof, surrounded by men who could tear her apart without breaking a sweat. Her breath caught in her chest. She needed to stay sharp. She couldn’t afford to forget what this was.
Even if her body did.
She willed away the imagery, the desire, the feelings associated with them.
Willow finally slipped out of bed, desperate for distraction, the cool air brushing her bare legs and arms as she padded toward the door. The floor was cold under her feet. She opened the door slowly, half-expecting someone to be standing on the other side. No one was.
The hallway beyond was dim, moonlight filtering through narrow windows and catching on the sheen of polished floors. As she walked, she admired the ornate tapestries that hung from the walls.
Until she remembered the wolves.
Willow shuddered.
She walked softly, her fingertips trailing along the carved wood of the banister as she descended the grand staircase.
The space opened wide below her, the silence of the manor somehow louder at night, every creak and shift in the house echoing like a threat.
The scent of the kitchen called to her—coffee grounds, and something meaty.
At the bottom of the stairs, she turned left, passing through the archway and into the kitchen.
It was still stunning, in that cold, magazine-spread kind of way.
High ceilings, marble countertops, stainless steel appliances polished to a mirror shine.
Willow glanced around cautiously. No signs of life.
No Milo. Just the low hum of the fridge and the tick of an antique clock mounted above the doorframe.
For a moment, she simply stood there, letting the quiet settle around her. The freedom to move—even just through this house—felt like a fragile gift. She stepped farther in, eyeing the cabinets, unsure of where to go to get what she needed. All she wanted was a cup of coffee.
“Hey there, Willow.”
She startled, hand flying to her chest as her heart jerked painfully.
Lachlan stood just a few feet away, leaning casually against the doorframe like he’d been there all along.
He was dressed in scrubs again—this pair light blue, patterned with little teddy bears clutching stethoscopes.
His smile was warm, easy, the kind that made you feel like you weren’t intruding.
But the circles under his eyes told a different story.
They were as dark as she’d ever seen on a person.
“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “Comes with the territory, the wolf thing and all that. It freaks the nurses out, too.”
There was a softness in his tone, a gentle kindness that contrasted sharply with everything else in this house. He didn’t look at her like she was prey. Just like she was in need of a cup of tea and some good conversation.
“You’re fine. I startle easily,” she murmured, arms folding across her chest. Her voice was nearly inaudible—but of course, that didn’t matter here.
Stupid fucking wolf powers, she grumbled internally, jaw tightening.
Lachlan didn’t comment on her shift in mood. Instead, he offered her another smile, this one softer, more deliberate. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I was just about to make one myself.”
Willow hesitated, then glanced at him. His presence was disarming, like he’d been built to ease tension, not create it. Despite everything, she wanted to like Lachlan. It would be easier to have at least one lifeline in this mess.
“Yeah,” she said, barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat. “That would be great.”
Lachlan gave a simple nod and moved around her, keeping a respectful distance as he stepped to the counter.
Willow trailed after him, careful not to get too close, leaning her weight onto the edge of the counter as she watched him move with practiced ease.
It was quiet, oddly domestic. Just a moment, she let herself breathe.
He moved quietly, asking what she liked in her coffee as he went. His tone was easy, unhurried, like this wasn’t the middle of a hostage situation but an ordinary morning between acquaintances. She answered with short, clipped phrases.
When the coffee was ready, they settled into a quiet rhythm, sitting across from each other at the kitchen island.
Willow wasn’t entirely sure why she’d agreed to linger.
Maybe it was foolish. But the truth was, she ached for anything that resembled normal.
A conversation without barbed edges. A moment without Milo.
Something human in all this madness.
“So, how are you settling in?”
Willow lifted the mug to her lips and took her time sipping, letting the silence hang uncomfortably thick between them. She didn’t owe him any answers, but his gaze pressed the words from her anyway.
“Well, all things considered,” she said, voice dry as bone, “I guess just fine.”
Her expression sharpened as she set the mug down, eyes cold and unreadable. Lachlan’s easy smile faltered, a flicker of regret tightening the space between his brows.
“I really am sorry about all this,” he murmured. “If it were up to me, things would’ve gone a lot differently.”
“So, what’s with the whole mate thing, anyway? Can’t he just, like, find somebody else? Somebody more willing?”
She hit the last word hard, her voice tight as she dropped her gaze. It wasn’t a real question; more of a desperate hope, clinging to the edge of reason .
Lachlan exhaled through his nose, his smile soft and sad. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but… no. It doesn’t work like that. A mate bond is not something we choose. It’s instinct. It’s written in the stars, so to speak.”
His voice dipped, gentling further. “It’s mutual, too, Willow. That pull you feel? That’s the bond.”
Willow’s thumb skimmed along the rim of her mug, her brow furrowed in thought. She didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to give it air, but the truth pressed up against her ribs.
“Yeah,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “I do feel it.”
Her voice cracked, and she set the mug down with a soft clink before burying her face in her hands. “I don’t know. None of this makes sense.”
Lachlan, mercifully, let her sit in the not-knowing. After a few moments of collecting herself, she spoke up again.
“So what are you guys, anyway? The werewolf mafia?”
Lachlan blinked, startled. His brow ticked up slowly, and for a second, he just stared at her like he wasn’t sure if she was joking.
“I’m sorry? ”
She shrugged, tone sharp. “I was talking to Milo, and he said that you sold drugs and guns.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a frown.
“If we’re being blunt, yes, I suppose that’s the bare bones of it.”
Willow’s eyes narrowed.
He sighed, resting his forearms on the counter, fingers drumming lightly. “Werewolf history is steeped in blood, Willow. You have to understand that we didn’t exactly have a seat at the table in society. For a long time, we survived in the shadows. That legacy carries down. The cycle continues.”
He was silent for a moment, allowing his words to sink in before continuing.
“Even now, with all the wealth and power we’ve built, it’s almost impossible to separate from the underbelly we were born into. It’s what we know.”
She leaned back slightly, arms crossed, gaze sharp as a blade. “Okay, but you’re a doctor. Can’t you just pay the bills? Why would you choose to engage with shit like that? You took an oath.”
Lachlan nodded once, slow and thoughtful.
“Technically speaking, yes. I could. I make more than enough to live a clean life. As for the oath, I’m not in charge of executions.”
His voice was calm, but there was a heaviness behind it.
“The reality is that it’s not that simple. There are more moving parts than you know. If we pulled out—if Milo stepped away from the table—it wouldn’t just end. It would simply change hands.”
Willow blinked, her frown deepening.
“There’d be a massive power vacuum,” he continued steadily. “People would die. Innocents, mostly. And the wolves who’d take over?” He looked her dead in the eye, not a hint of apology in his tone. “You’d much rather it be us. I promise you that.”
Her attention was caught. “Why are the other guys so bad?”
Lachlan suddenly looked uncomfortable, shifting in his chair.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about. Milo will make sure of that.”
Willow wanted to dig deeper, press harder, ask the dozens of questions filling her mind. But the subtle shift in Lachlan’s posture told her everything; he was retreating behind his walls. Instead, she changed the subject .
“I always thought werewolves were monsters.”
That earned a barking laugh from Lachlan, bright and unguarded. His teeth flashed in the warm kitchen light, the sound startling in its sincerity.
“Well,” he said, still grinning, “there’s some truth to that lore, I’m afraid. Though it’s not pretty.”
Willow’s brow arched. “Oh?”
His smile dimmed just slightly, replaced with something more serious.
“If you’re born a wolf, your body’s built for it.
But if you’re bitten…” He shook his head.
“There’s a risk. Some people don’t make it through the first shift.
They get caught in between, trapped in a living hell.
The pain, the instinct... it drives them mad. ”
She felt her breath hitch, icy fingers of fear wrapping around her spine as a shiver rolled down her back.
Lachlan caught the change. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said quickly, voice gentle. “Milo would never risk that with you. And it doesn’t just happen from a bite. To pass on the gift, it has to be intentional. You have to be intending to pass it on. Accidental turnings aren’t really a thing.”
Willow exhaled, slow and shaky.
Well , she thought, gnawing nervously at her thumbnail, that’s a relief… I guess .
Lachlan’s pocket lit up, a sharp flash of green glowing through the thin fabric. A second later, a shrill series of beeps erupted, followed by frantic vibration. He reached in and pulled out a small pager—plastic, scratched at the corners, and clearly well-worn.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered, eyes scanning the message before flashing Willow an apologetic smile. “Work’s calling.”
Before she could say a word, he was gone, pushing off the counter and darting out of the room in a blur of motion that reminded her he wasn’t quite human.
The silence returned.
Willow sat still, the quiet pressing in on her like a weight.
It was suffocating. The hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of a clock were the only sounds left to keep her company.
For one absurd moment, she almost wished Milo would come stalking in just to break the stillness.
At least his presence filled the room and gave her something to focus on.
With a long, heavy sigh, she drained the rest of her coffee and rose reluctantly. She rinsed both mugs and left them in the sink before turning back toward the entryway. There was nothing to do now. No one to talk to.
Sleep, then.
She could always go back to sleep.