22. Milo
MILO
T he sharp crack of gunfire rang through the private shooting range, echoing off concrete and steel, although he barely heard it through his ear protection. Milo adjusted his grip on the Glock and squeezed the trigger again. Headshot. Center mass. Headshot.
He didn’t miss. He never did.
An acrid scent clung to the air, sharp and comforting. It reminded him of long nights in hostile territory, fingers wrapped around steel, blood in his mouth, and a mission clock ticking down like a bomb.
Delta doesn’t feel, he reminded himself.
But he wasn’t Delta anymore.
Milo holstered the weapon, breathing out slowly and steadily, watching the target sway at the end of the lane. He didn’t want to think about those days. Not the sounds. Not the faces.
Not the goddamn children .
Instead, he thought of Willow.
That defiant little chin tilted up at him. Her eyes, blue and blazing. The way her voice cracked when she cursed his name, like it tasted too sweet to spit out so viciously.
He could smell her, even now. Her scent clung to his clothes, to his thoughts; he was undeniably hers.
Milo pulled the slide back and reloaded. Every click and snap of metal was a balm against the ache clawing at his chest.
She’s not ready yet, he reminded himself. But soon.
He raised the gun again and centered the next target.
Soon, she’ll understand .
Then, he fired.
Too many variables. Too much silence. In the world of wolves, silence never meant peace. A storm was coming. He could feel it in his bones, in the way the air tasted; too still, too clean.
McGarvey had gone quiet, and he never stayed quiet for long.
Milo didn’t trust it. It wasn’t like him to lie low unless he was planning something that would hit like a sniper’s bullet—silent, sudden, deadly.
Every instinct Milo had, sharpened by years in the field, told him that the calm was about to fracture.
Something was moving beneath the surface, and he hadn’t clocked it yet.
That alone was enough to put him on edge.
He’d been considering relocating Willow. Somewhere more secure. Somewhere farther from reach. But the idea left a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t want to be without her unless he had no other choice. But choices were thinning out.
And he knew better than anyone, the worst kind of war was the one you couldn’t see coming.
With a sigh, Milo flicked on the safety and holstered his weapon. It was time to go.
***
The engine rumbled low beneath him, a steady growl that mirrored the growing tension in Milo’s gut.
The city lights blurred past the windshield as he drove, jaw tight, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming restlessly against his thigh.
The meeting with McGarvey had been a long time coming, but he didn’t trust the timing of the man reaching out.
Not for a second.
The air inside the SUV felt too hot, even with the AC blasting.
He rolled his neck, trying to loosen the knot at the base of his spine, but it only cinched tighter.
Every instinct he had, every scrap of training drilled into him during his special forces days, told him this was a setup of some sort.
McGarvey never came to the table without something sharp hidden behind his back .
And Milo couldn’t afford to bleed.
Not now. Not with Willow under his roof. Not with the bond half-complete and her scent lingering on his skin as a signal to every other wolf that she existed, and she was his.
His fingers curled tighter on the wheel. He was walking into the lion’s den without a plan.
Milo rolled onto the dock road with the slow precision of a man expecting an ambush.
The headlights washed over the row of rust-stained warehouses and shipping containers stacked sky-high.
The SUV crunched over gravel as he pulled into the shadow of one of the larger structures, Building 12.
It was a good choice. Isolated. Close to water. Easy exits in every direction.
He cut the engine.
Titan was already there, leaning against the side of a black Charger with his arms crossed and a scowl that likely hadn’t budged since puberty. The younger wolf straightened as Milo stepped out, heavy boots landing on the concrete like punctuation marks.
“You made good time,” Titan muttered, falling in step as Milo passed.
“I wasn’t stopping for red lights,” Milo replied, scanning the building with sharp eyes. “You see any movement? ”
“Just the usual rats. No signs of McGarvey’s wolves yet.”
“Then they’re already inside.”
Milo led the way toward the warehouse’s side door, every step echoing beneath the high steel roof. He could smell the river, rust, and something else underneath it all—something wrong.
The quickly mounting tension sharpened as they reached the threshold.
The metal door groaned on rusted hinges as Milo pushed, the sound bouncing down the darkened corridor like a warning shot. Cold air met them first, sea-drenched and metallic, followed by the faint flicker of fluorescent lights, one of them stuttering overhead like a faulty nerve. Milo moved first.
He swept the space with his eyes, mentally marking the exits, counting shadows, cataloging angles. It was muscle memory now. Doorways. Blind spots. Cracks in the concrete that could trip a man running for cover. Every sense dialed in, heightened by the wolf inside him.
Titan followed a step behind, too loud. Too tense. Milo could hear his heartbeat, the fluttering of uncertainty bleeding out through his pores.
“Breathe through it, pup,” Milo murmured under his breath. Titan didn’t answer, but his pace steadied.
They turned a corner into a massive, open room where the ceiling rose in a cavernous arc overhead. It had once housed freight. Now, it held something far heavier.
McGarvey stood at the center of it all, arms crossed, jaw tight, his pack flanking him like obedient dogs. Five men. No visible weapons.
That didn’t mean they weren’t armed.
Milo stepped forward.
“McGarvey.”
McGarvey’s smile slithered across his face.
“Milo,” he drawled, voice smooth as aged bourbon and just as full-bodied. “Always a pleasure. And Titan, of course. I do hope you’re hard at work on the essay I assigned.”
Milo didn’t return the smile, ignoring his pointed words.
He stopped ten paces away, feet planted like concrete and arms loose at his sides, relaxed but ready. “Let’s skip the formalities. You called this meeting. What do you want?”
McGarvey let out a low chuckle, brushing imaginary lint off the shoulder of his charcoal blazer. “So direct. It’s charming, in a beastly sort of way.” He took a slow step forward, his pack staying firmly behind him.
“I want peace, Milo,” McGarvey said, lifting his palms in what reeked of mock sincerity. “At least for now. The city’s bleeding. Our men are restless. Tensions are rising, and if we don’t ease the pressure, we’ll be wiping blood off our floors for months.”
“You’re not wrong,” Milo said flatly. “But you don’t usually care about the chaos or the cleanup.”
“True.” McGarvey’s grin widened. “But I do care about optics. And business. War is so… messy.”
He let the pause linger.
“I propose a truce. Temporary, of course. We give the city time to breathe. You and I keep our wolves in line.”
Milo narrowed his eyes.
“And what’s in it for you?”
McGarvey’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it grew wider.
“Oh, Milo. Must everything be transactional with you?” He took another measured step forward, the heel of his Italian leather loafer clicking against the concrete floor. “Fine. I’ll humor you.”
He folded his hands behind his back, posture unnervingly elegant for someone who’d likely gutted a man in the last week .
“What I want,” McGarvey said smoothly, “is time. Time to let things settle. Time to get my people and territory in order again.” He arched an eyebrow. “Frankly, I think you could use the same.”
Milo didn’t respond, his expression unreadable.
McGarvey continued, voice low and persuasive. “You’ve been sloppy lately. Distracted. And it’s showing. Not very alpha of you.”
Titan tensed beside him, and Milo’s fists clenched.
“I’m warning you, McGarvey…” he growled.
“Alright, alright,” McGarvey chuckled, tone light, amused. “But you do need to tread carefully.”
His smile dropped.
“Take the deal, Milo, or we all bleed.”
Milo stared McGarvey down, jaw tight, muscles coiling beneath his shirt like a trigger primed. Every instinct in his body screamed to reject the offer, to bare his teeth and show that no one—especially not McGarvey—could dictate his next move.
But instinct didn’t build empires. Strategy did.
He gave a slow, curt nod. “Fine. We’ll stick to our parts of town. You do the same. No skirmishes. No overreaching.”
McGarvey’s grin returned like a mask being slid back into place. “Smart man.”
Milo turned on his heel without another word, Titan falling into step beside him.
They moved with purpose, each footfall echoing through the cavernous building.
The silence between them was thick until they pushed through the front doors and stepped into the cold air, the city lights glittering against the black water in the distance.
Only then did Titan speak, rubbing the back of his neck and exhaling hard.
“That guy is such a dick,” he muttered. “Worst homework I’ve ever had in my life. And it’s not even subtle. He gave me a twenty-page paper on power struggles in hierarchical systems—like he’s not talking about the packs.”
Milo snorted, unlocking his car and tossing Titan a look over the roof.
“Don’t flunk.”
“I’d rather get shot.”