25. Willow
WILLOW
W illow pulled away—not with force, but with hesitancy—her skin still tingling where he’d touched her. That warmth lingered like a healing wound, curling low in her belly, but she refused to let it settle too deeply.
She turned from him, crossing the room with bare feet pressing silently against the worn wood. The glow of the fire outlined her as she walked, illuminating the soft curves of her form. She didn’t bother covering herself. If he looked, let him. He’d already seen her. It was no longer about modesty.
It was about control.
The space around her was vast and drenched in understated opulence. She ran her fingers across the edge of a heavy mahogany desk, its surface worn only in the places that hinted at long hours of use.
Her gaze drifted to the shelves lining the far wall, crammed with books that she was sure smelled of leather and dust. There was a globe in the corner, antique and faded, next to a tufted armchair that looked like it had swallowed generations of secrets.
“This doesn’t feel like a room for a child,” she said, turning her head just enough to catch his profile in the firelight.
She paused at the edge of the dresser, one hand resting on the carved backing. “It feels like it belongs to some history professor in his late fifties.”
Her voice had softened. Not accusatory. Just observant, with a hint of humor.
She wondered again just how many versions of Milo existed, and which ones she was meant to love or fear.
Willow drifted away from the dresser and back toward the fireplace, slow and deliberate in every step, as though retracing her path through some dream.
The warmth licked at her bare skin, casting her in flickering gold and shadow, and as she lowered herself to the rug, she felt the softness of it cushion her limbs like a lover’s hands.
She sat with her back pressed against the couch, drawing her knees up slightly, arms draped loosely around them. Her head tilted to the side, catching him in her periphery. Willow extended a hand and patted the rug beside her twice.
Still watching him, she raised a brow, just slightly.
“Well?” she murmured.
There was no heat in her voice. Just a quiet challenge, daring him to come closer and see what happened when fire met flint. He braved the threat of flame and came to rest beside her, mirroring Willow’s position.
“Why are we here?”
She was curious—truly, deeply curious—and it was unsettling in a way she hadn’t expected. The edges of her vision felt blurred, dreamlike. The world around her had gone soft, like it had slipped underwater, and now she floated inside it, untethered and disoriented.
“I thought maybe you’d want to know more about me,” Milo said quietly, his voice coming in through the haze. “At least, I hope you do. I’m not keeping you here because I want to hurt you, Willow. I’m doing it to protect you. If you knew more, maybe you’d see that.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. Her body was too heavy, her thoughts too light.
He was watching her with his head tilted slightly to the side, studying her the way a farmer studies a storm. Not fearful, but aware that it could break him if he wasn’t careful. And he should be. She didn’t know what she was capable of anymore.
Not with him, at least.
One thing was certain—Milo’s heart was not safe in her hands. Willow felt the distance between them like an impassable chasm. The bond tugged at her, but she refused to be pulled. Still, the sting of that resistance hurt more than she wanted to admit.
And yet, she cared. Not in the way he wanted. Not in the way that made sense. But it was there, a quiet ache in her chest every time she saw the storm in his eyes soften for her. That alone made it harder to write him off completely.
She could use that. She could twist the thread of their bond around her finger, sleep in his bed and whisper promises into the dark—all for the sake of an escape. The idea had festered in her mind more than once.
But when the moment came, when she imagined looking into those mournful eyes and lying straight through her teeth, something inside her recoiled.
“Milo, I’m scared.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them, barely more than a whisper.
They hovered in the space between them, fragile and uncertain.
Willow’s gaze dropped to the floor. She didn’t know who she was anymore.
Her life had been gutted and rearranged, and she was stuck somewhere in the ruins, unsure of where to go from there.
“I know, Willow,” he said, quiet but steady. “Can I hold you? ”
She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Her body was caught in a strange push and pull—instinct screaming to run, to retreat, while something deeper, something older, begged her to stay.
After a breath, she nodded.
Milo reached out, warm fingers closing gently around her hand. He guided her to the middle of the rug, where the heat licked at her skin almost too softly to feel real. He laid down, rolling onto his side. Willow followed, hesitant, then let herself curl into him.
Her face turned into his chest.
The steady thrum of his heartbeat echoed against her cheek, grounding her in a way nothing else ever had.
Willow lifted her head. For a long moment, she just looked at him; let herself take in the softness around his eyes, the gentle lift of his brow, the way his lips were parted ever so slightly, waiting.
Her hand came up to his chest first, pressing lightly. And then, quietly, without ceremony, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his.
It was slow. Gentle. Measured .
When she pulled back, her breath caught at the expression on his face—equal parts stunned and hopeful, like she’d given him something to hold on to. She pressed her body to his, curling against the warmth of him, letting the fire chase away the rest of her fear.
She wasn’t sure what this was yet, wasn’t ready to give it a name, but she was starting to feel it settle under her skin, making itself at home.
His hands skimmed over her skin like ghosts, pulling every jagged piece of her fractured heart up to the surface.
Part of her, the part still bitter with its wounds, wished he’d bleed for it.
That he’d press his palm too hard to her chest and feel the sharpness of everything she wasn’t ready to give.
But Milo was careful.
He tilted closer, brushing the bridge of his nose up along her throat, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.
She shivered, but not from cold. She wanted his mouth, wanted to feel the fire of it marking her skin.
But instead of claiming her in the way she knew he wanted to, he offered something softer.
He nudged his nose against hers, sweet and unexpected.
“I want you.”
The confession fell from her lips before she could stop it.
Maybe it was the ache pooling low in her tender cunt, or the quiet yearning of her heart for something it recognized in him.
Maybe it was both. Some wild, instinctual part of her whispered that safety lived somewhere beneath him—beneath his mouth, his worship.
Milo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pressed his face to her cheek, inhaling her scent.
For a moment, she feared he hadn’t heard her at all. Then his voice came, low and gravel-rough.
“You’re dream-drunk, sweetheart.”
The words cut through the haze. She blinked, her breath catching in her throat. Her mouth parted, ready to defend, to say that she meant it, but nothing came.
What does that mean? Willow wondered, the words still echoing in her skull.
As if he’d read her mind, Milo leaned back just enough to see her face. He was cast in shadows, outlined with a halo of light that made him seem otherworldly. His eyes were wild, glowing gold and ancient and full of something ready to strike. But he didn’t pounce. He didn’t lose himself.
“We’re in a dream, Willow,” he said softly, voice low in the space between them. “It’s part of the bond between us. If the intention is there, we can meet here. It takes practice to control it… But it’s useful for a number of reasons.”
She blinked at him, trying to make sense of what that meant. Dream. Bond. Intention.
It felt so real—the heat between them, the weight of the fur rug beneath her, the fire crackling behind Milo. But it explained everything—the way the world seemed softer around the edges, the warmth flooding her chest that wasn’t entirely her own.
Willow froze.
The haze peeled back in layers, thin at first, like mist dissolving beneath the sun, then ripping apart in sheets that exposed every raw nerve.
She remembered in flashes. The abduction.
The conversation with Lachlan. The attempted violence by the pool.
Each one slid into place like the cocking of a loaded gun.
Her breath hitched. Her jaw tightened.
Rage wasn’t the right word. But it was close, so close it scorched her from the inside out.
“You motherfucker ,” she spat, the words slipping through gritted teeth. She bolted upright. “You’ve been doing this on purpose.”
Milo didn’t flinch. He lay stretched out beside the fire, half-shadowed and still, like some predator lounging in the sun after a kill.
“You’ve been toying with me,” she snapped, her voice trembling now with disbelief more than fear. “You’re such a jackass.”
Still, he didn’t move. He looked at her the way you peer out the window at a blizzard—like her fury wasn’t something to fear, just a storm to wait out.
“You’re not wrong,” he said finally, sounding vaguely amused. “But I didn’t bring you here tonight. I might have chosen the place, but you came to me .”