23. Willow
WILLOW
S leep hadn’t come easily. By the time morning rolled around, Willow had climbed out of bed with a new mission, determined to salvage whatever control she could. If she couldn’t escape yet, she could at least stop wallowing and start thinking clearly.
She decided she needed sunlight on her skin, needed proof the world still existed beyond the walls of Milo’s carefully constructed kingdom.
She ended up barefoot on the back patio, the light warming her arms as she settled into one of the Adirondack chairs with a tired sigh and a book she had snagged from a shelf she’d come across.
The late afternoon sun slanted across the back porch, washing the boards in smearing golden puddles.
Her knees were drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins, a book held against her leg.
Her eyes drifted across the sprawling backyard—first to the neat little garden surrounded by a low, white fence, then to the still blue surface of the pool.
The place was so peaceful that it was offensive.
It didn’t feel like a prison right now.
And yet, she was still a captive.
The soft breeze teased at the hem of her white sundress, pulling a few strands of hair across her cheek. She didn’t brush them away. She didn’t move at all. Stillness had become a sort of armor lately—if she stayed quiet long enough, maybe her thoughts would too.
But no such luck.
Milo lived in her head like a ghost, lingering in the darkest parts of her mind, whispering things she didn’t want to hear.
The shape of his mouth, the strength in his hands, the tenderness behind the violence—it all sat heavy in her memory.
Worse than any one moment was the confusion it left behind.
She didn’t want to want him. She didn’t want to like him.
And yet…
Her stomach turned.
Lachlan’s words echoed. A mate bond is instinctual… on both parts.
She had felt it—that pull, the unrelenting heat in her blood when Milo was near.
It was like gravity had changed its rules and chosen him as her new center.
Every time she tried to push it away, it came back stronger.
She hated it. Hated how her body and heart refused to fall in line with her brain.
Werewolves. Crime lords. Mate bonds.
None of this was normal. And yet, here she was—sitting on a sun-drenched porch like a princess in a tower, trapped in what she was sure was someone else’s fairytale.
Titan appeared, snapping her from her thoughts with his muddy boots thudding against the wooden boards as he shoved the back door open with his hip.
He was juggling a stack of burger patties in one hand and a large bag of chips in the other.
Behind him, Lachlan followed with a tray of marinated chicken and a six-pack dangling from his fingers.
“Hope you’re hungry, Willow,” Titan called out, flashing her a boyish grin as he made a beeline for the grill tucked beside the porch railing. “We’re doing barbecue tonight.”
Willow blinked up at him, squinting against the sun. “Didn’t realize you took dinner requests.”
“Oh, for you? Always,” Lachlan said with a wink, already setting the tray down on the side table beside the grill. “But for now, our dear alpha decided it was a good night for grilling, which usually means we get to do the work and he gets to stand around and supervise.”
“Lies and slander,” came Milo’s voice from the open slider.
Willow’s heart gave an unhelpful lurch.
He stepped through the open door, dressed in dark jeans and a navy t-shirt that clung to his chest and arms in maddening ways. His eyes found hers, that familiar heat sparking to life in their depths.
Willow turned away before he could say anything, fixing her gaze on the garden as if it were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.
Unbothered, Milo strolled to the railing and leaned on it beside her, letting the breeze lift a few strands of his hair. “Even prisoners deserve good meals,” he said quietly, eyes still on her.
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t move away either.
Willow’s voice cut through the air, cool and sharp. “Strange sentiment coming from you. You don’t exactly strike me as a fan of rehabilitation over punishment.”
Milo didn’t respond at first. He stayed where he was, eyes fixed on the tree line like he could see through the pines and straight into whatever future he was dreaming up.
Finally, his voice came low and even. “You might be surprised who I am, Willow, and what I believe. But you’d have to bother to get to know me.”
Then, without waiting for her reply, he pushed off the railing and walked to where Lachlan was setting out utensils. Wordlessly, he picked up the tongs and began helping .
The grill hissed as the first pieces of steak hit the grate, smoke curling upward in thin tendrils. Milo moved with practiced ease. Lachlan stood beside him, sleeves rolled, fussing over the marinade bowl with surgical precision.
Titan was leaned against the porch rail with a cold beer in hand, watching the whole thing unfold like it was the most effort he planned to exert all day.
“Do you think McGarvey will give me an extension on—” Titan began.
Milo didn’t look up, cutting him off. “No, and I think it would be a mistake to ask him for one.”
Willow heard them vaguely, their voices drifting across the yard. She didn’t so much as lift her head. The book in her lap was open again, her thumb idly holding the page.
After some blessedly quiet time, the sun began its descent behind the trees, casting long, amber shadows across the yard.
The scent of grilled meat clung to the air, rich and decadent.
Lachlan was plating ribs and skewers with careful hands, humming to himself as he arranged everything on the outdoor table.
Milo stood by the grill, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
Titan had just cracked open another beer when Milo turned .
“Alright,” Milo said, voice low, “dinner’s ready… but first, Titan, we have some unfinished business regarding the night Willow met you.”
The younger wolf froze, bottle half-raised to his lips. “What’d’ya mean?”
Milo didn’t answer.
Titan’s eyes widened, and in the next heartbeat, he was gone—feet pounding across the lawn, beer bottle shattering against the deck. Willow startled, her head jerking up in time to see a blur of movement shoot toward the pool. She stood halfway, uncertain, heart suddenly racing.
Milo moved just as fast, a silent predator cutting across the yard with ease. He didn’t shift. He didn’t need to. Within seconds, he was gaining ground, his long strides eating the distance.
Titan rounded the pool, breath ragged, skidding in the grass.
But it was too late.
Milo caught him by the collar and yanked him back just before he reached the concrete.
She was out of her chair.
Willow launched herself across the yard, her bare feet pounding, fury bubbling in her chest. Within seconds, she was between them, slipping into the narrow space.
Milo’s fist hovered midair, frozen. Titan flinched, face turned, breath held.
“Absolutely the fuck not,” she howled, voice sharp. She jumped to meet Milo’s eyes and shoved her book into his chest.
“Willow—”
Something inside her snapped. Every ounce of anger, every inch of exhaustion, every second of being caged; it all detonated at once.
She started barking.
Loud, sharp, hysterical barks, one after the other, exploding from her lungs in rapid bursts.
Milo blinked, stunned. He stumbled back, caught off guard as she advanced on him, still barking.
“Bark, bark, bark. That’s what you sound like,” she snarled. “ You need to cool the fuck off.”
She shoved him.
Hard .
Milo had nowhere to go but backwards.
The water engulfed his form.
The book went flying after him.
Willow stood at the edge, chest heaving, heart pounding.
Milo surfaced in a smooth glide, water cascading down his broad shoulders as the ripples fanned out around him. He ran a hand over his face, slicking his darkened hair back, then turned to glance at the floating casualty of her wrath—her book.
Reaching out, he plucked it from the surface with two fingers on the spine, shaking it gently like a wet kitten, then turned it in his hands. His expression shifted from curiosity to something close to delight.
“You like Shakespeare?” he called out, a grin spreading.
Willow’s eye twitched. She had forgotten that he was familiar with Shakespeare.
She let out one final scream—this one less rage, more resignation—before spinning on her heel and storming away from the pool and toward the deck, fists clenched and shoulders tight. She didn’t care that everyone was watching.
The exhaustion was back, creeping in behind her fury like a tide rolling in after the storm. Her limbs felt heavy, her chest hollow. All she wanted now was the dark solitude of her room, the comfort of silence, and the soft embrace of blankets.
Fuck him and his stupid fucking Shakespeare bullshit, she thought bitterly as she slipped in through the sliding door and headed upstairs.