24. Milo
MILO
L achlan peered down at Milo, a brow raised as he scooped a bite of potato salad into his mouth. “You good down there?”
“Yeah, great. Why do you ask?”
Lachlan hummed, chewing thoughtfully. “You just seem a little wet, is all.”
Milo grinned, sharp and wolfish, even as his chest ached. “If that’s what’s worrying you, I’d be terrified for Willow tonight.”
“You’re gross, you know that?” Lachlan said, sighing. “Willow’s right. You need to settle down.”
Milo didn’t argue. He let the water cradle him, cooling his skin even as his clothes fought to drag him down, and his thoughts turned back to Willow. She was somehow so soft even in her fury.
Lachlan finished the last bite of his potato salad, crumpled the paper plate, and tossed it into the nearby trash can with a clean shot. Then, he offered a hand down to Milo.
“You ready to fill me in with what happened at that meeting?”
Milo sighed, letting his legs drop until he was upright in the water. “Not a whole lot.”
“But something did happen?”
With a practiced heave, Lachlan pulled him from the water, Milo landing on the stone pool deck with barely a splash. His shirt clung to his body like a second skin, water cascading from his jeans as he ran a hand through his dripping hair.
Once he was up, the two of them walked toward the back porch in silence for a beat, until Milo spoke, voice low and taut.
“He wants some sort of ceasefire between us.”
Lachlan’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “And?”
“I agreed to it, but I’m questioning what it entails. It feels almost like he wants to make a grab for territory and for us to roll over while he does it.”
Lachlan hissed softly. “He’s been after a few pockets for a while.”
“Regardless of the reason, it feels wrong,” Milo muttered, wiping water from his brow. “I know he’s up to something.”
Lachlan stopped just inside the doorway, folding his arms. “And Willow?”
“He’ll never so much as set eyes on her if I can help it,” Milo growled. “She’s not a piece on this board. She’s off-limits.”
Lachlan nodded. “I don’t even think McGarvey would go that far, honestly. It would go against the very nature of our laws.”
“Yeah. But everything is different now.” Milo looked toward the stairs, where Willow had vanished minutes before. “I can’t take chances, Lachlan. Not with her life riding on the outcomes.”
***
Milo moved through the quiet house, his bare feet silent against the cool floor. The night had finally wound down, the last threads of sunlight long since faded, and the manor had settled into a stillness that felt like pressure building behind his eyes.
He walked into his room, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it into the hamper. The distant chirp of crickets filtered through the open window, but the sound was drowned out by his thoughts.
Of Willow, naturally.
He went about his routine, brushing his teeth with slow, methodical strokes, washing his face like he was preparing for a date instead of bed.
He towel-dried, staring at himself in the mirror for a long moment.
There were lines in his face that hadn’t been there before.
New ones, carved not from time, but from stress.
He could still hear the way she had said his name. The memory of her breathless voice from that night was a constant companion now, echoing in his mind like a song on repeat. He’d replayed the moment a hundred times—her softness, her surrender, the tremble in her voice as she begged.
He swallowed hard, dragging a hand down his face. She was unraveling for him, thread by thread, and soon, there’d be nothing left between them but truth and skin.
Milo pulled on a pair of worn sweatpants and padded over to the bed. He sank onto the mattress with a low exhale, staring at the empty space beside him.
Soon , he thought.
***
The fire crackled softly, throwing amber light across the room that flickered and flitted.
Shadows stretched long over the antique furniture.
The velvet drapes had been pulled back just enough to reveal the snow-covered mountains beyond the tall, arched windows.
It was the kind of room that belonged to a place older than memory.
And there, in front of the fireplace, lay the only person who had ever really mattered.
Willow was curled atop the thick fur rug, her bare skin gilded by firelight.
Milo watched her from the doorway, barely breathing.
Her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, and one arm was tucked beneath her head while the other lay loosely over her belly.
She was completely at ease, and so fully, beautifully bare.
She hadn’t dressed for bed.
Milo stepped forward silently, the weight of his gaze trailing over every inch of her.
Her hip curved in the firelight like the edge of a blade.
Her back was exposed, spine soft against the fur.
He memorized every detail. And though he ached to reach for her, to wake her with his mouth and hands, he didn’t.
He simply watched, spellbound and still, letting the heat in his chest match the fire that roared behind her.
Milo stood in the glow of the fireplace, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watched her stir. The fur rug shifted with her breathing. The flames played over her skin like they worshipped her as much as he did.
She was waking.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe .
Then she blinked, lashes fluttering open, and her sleepy eyes found him across the room.
“Milo,” she rasped, voice soft and thick with sleep. The sound of his name on her lips was enough to anchor him, even when everything else in his world felt untethered.
He stepped closer, slow and careful, like she was prey and yet a forbidden hunt all at once.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
“You’re staring,” she said, barely above a whisper. Her tone wasn’t accusing. Just tired. Curious.
“You make it hard not to.”
Lying there like some kind of dream, flushed with warmth and alive with things he didn’t deserve—softness, stillness, light.
When she looked at him again, it was different. Like she was trying to read him, decode something written between the lines of who he was and who he wanted to be.
Perhaps somebody worthy of her.
“You always look at me like you’ve already decided how the story ends,” she said, her voice steady this time.
He dropped into a crouch, careful to keep space between them. His hands curled into loose fists on his thighs.
“That’s because it’s already been told,” he said. “Ours is a story as old as time, sweetheart.”
She looked at him for a long time, and in that silence, he could hear every heartbeat. Hers. His. The bond humming like a live wire between them.
“You scare me,” she whispered.
“I scare myself,” he admitted.
But he didn’t back away.
And she didn’t ask him to.
Her face was so unguarded that it almost made him ache. The fire behind her cast shadows that dipped into the delicate hollows of her collarbones and the curve of her spine.
And she was still nude.
His pulse ticked upward—not out of lust, though it simmered beneath the surface—but out of awe. She was art. Alive and breathing, wrapped in a halo of firelight and fur.
She stared steadily, slowly dragging her body forward across the rug. She wasn’t doing it to tease—she didn’t even seem fully aware of the effect she was having—but every movement was a distraction. His brain fogged, pulse thudding in his ears.
“Where are we?” she whispered.
“My childhood bedroom,” he responded.
She didn’t respond right away, just stared at him. Her expression shifted, uncertain—torn between instinct and logic, between fear and desire.
He could smell the change in her, the heat between her legs, the spark of something unspoken.
But she didn’t close the distance.
And neither did he.
Instead, Milo crouched and waited—for her to speak, for her to move toward him, for anything she was willing to give.
Willow shifted closer, slow and deliberate, until there was no space left between them. Her eyes found his—wide, ocean-blue, glinting with something unreadable in the flicker of firelight. Milo held still, barely breathing.
She tilted her chin up, gaze unwavering, an invitation wrapped with uncertainty.
Carefully, he lifted a hand to her face, brushing his knuckles along her cheek before letting his palm settle there. To his shock, she leaned into it. A soft, barely-there sound slipped from her throat, and it hit him like a strike to the sternum.
God, she was going to ruin him.
Her eyes held his, challenging and curious.
Milo’s heart thudded against his ribs. He wondered what it would be like to have her devotion—to earn it. To taste the sweetness of her trust.
He wanted her.
But he wanted her to choose him more.
So he curled his fingers gently around her jaw, grounding them both, and said nothing. Because this time, she was in control.
And that was exactly how it had to be.