28. Milo
MILO
M ilo stood at the far end of the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter, the other holding his phone to his ear. The low hum of the fridge was the only sound between his clipped words.
“Status on Poppy?”
“She’s good,” Arlo said. His tone was level, all business. “She’s settled in.”
Milo’s brow ticked, but he didn’t press. “She aware of the situation?”
“She’s got the broad strokes. I’m keeping it need-to-know, per SOP.”
“Copy.” Milo shifted his weight, eyes narrowing on the grain of the wood beneath his hand. “I briefed Willow on McGarvey. She took it about how I expected.”
“Panic?”
“No. More like... Shock. She knows McGarvey’s pack is targeting her for leverage..”
“Good,” Arlo said. The faint rustle on the other end told Milo he was moving—pacing, maybe. “What’s her status?”
“Fragile. I’m giving her downtime. Figure I’ll get her out of the house tonight.”
“Make sure you have coverage. You know how I feel about you compromising OpSec,” Arlo lectured.
“Roger,” Milo glanced toward the hallway where Willow had disappeared hours ago. “We’ll bring Titan.”
“Roger that,” Arlo responded in kind. “I’ll maintain overwatch.” There was a faint shift in his tone again, something that sounded almost like a smile. “Poppy’s in good hands. Make sure Willow knows that.”
“Keep her there, keep her safe. I’ll call in once we have better intel.”
“Stay frosty, brother.”
“Always.”
The line clicked dead, leaving Milo with the fridge’s hum and the creeping shadow of the night ahead. He slid the phone into his pocket and crossed the kitchen. He cut through the main hall, the afternoon light spilling in from the tall windows, and stepped into the library.
The scent of old paper and leather hung in the air.
He moved toward the far wall, eyes skimming the shelves until they found the right book—a thick, worn field manual wedged between two classics.
He pulled it halfway out, heard the soft click, and pushed the shelf to the left.
The entire bookcase shifted on hidden hinges, revealing a panel inset with a keypad.
He keyed in the sequence from memory. Eight digits, no hesitation. The lock disengaged with a dull clunk, and the panel slid aside to reveal the entrance.
The air inside was cooler, drier. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with matte-black racks, each one holding an arsenal that could outfit a small army.
Carbines, sniper rifles, sidearms, all spotless, all maintained to military standard.
Rows of magazines sat neatly stacked, each one labeled and organized by caliber.
Ammunition crates were stenciled in sharp black lettering, their lids secured with fresh seals.
On the far side, a workbench was spread with field knives, suppressors, optics, and gear pouches, each one laid out with surgical order.
A row of tactical vests hung beside them, MOLLE webbing stripped bare, ready to be loaded.
Above it all, a wall-mounted map of the city was marked in red grease pencil—two territories, one line bisecting them like a scar.
Milo stepped inside and let the bookcase slide quietly shut behind him. The room’s isolation wrapped around him, muting the rest of the house. Here, there were no burning questions that needed immediate answers. Just gear, preparation, and the quiet hum of the dehumidifier in the corner.
His hand skimmed along the racks until it found the one he wanted—an HK416, Delta’s workhorse.
Short-stroke piston system, 5.56 NATO, sixteen-inch barrel.
It had been his go-to long before the military contracts started pushing them into every elite unit.
Reliable in mud, sand, snow—didn’t matter what you threw at it, it ran clean.
He took it down with the care a man had for a weapon that had never failed him. The weight was perfect, familiar. Muscle memory filled in the blanks, his fingers moving over the charging handle, the forward assist, checking the chamber before locking it back into place.
Marksmanship had been an edge of his back in training—he didn’t just pass, he outperformed by an incredible margin, hitting tight groupings at distances that made instructors double-take.
It wasn’t luck. It was hours on the range until the rifle felt like an extension of his body, until every breath, every squeeze of the trigger was calculated.
That discipline had carried him through Delta selection, through the grueling months where every man in the selection process was ready to break.
He slid the rifle into a soft case, grabbed a loaded mag from the stack, and zipped it shut. No need to bring a full kit for tonight. He already had his Glock holstered on his hip, out of sight but ready at a short notice. That was more than enough firepower.
Crossing the room, he tapped the keypad to seal the armory. The bookcase slid silently back into place, leaving no sign of what was hidden behind it. Milo adjusted the strap of the rifle case on his shoulder and walked out, already running tonight’s plan through his head.
***
“Is that… a gun?”
Her disbelief was so pure, Milo laughed.
“Are you telling me it’s strange for the head of the ‘werewolf mafia’ to be armed?”
Willow’s lips pressed together, a flicker of awareness passing through her eyes. She knew she’d walked into that one. Instead of answering, she folded her arms and gave a noncommittal little hum.
“Yes, it’s a gun,” he said, unzipping the case with deliberate care. “And not just any gun. It’s the one you’re going to learn to shoot with.”
She went pale, the shock plain on her face. Milo knew she wasn’t violent by nature—hell, she was likely the gentlest person he knew. But this wasn’t about nature; it was about survival. And in the wake of McGarvey’s moves, survival meant knowing how to put a round exactly where it needed to go.
He zipped the case shut after letting her see the rifle’s black, predatory lines. It would ride in the backseat with Titan, close enough to grab if the trouble they were imagining decided to show its face. Some problems couldn’t be solved with a handgun.
“Where are we going?” Willow asked as they stepped out into the glare of late-day sunlight. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes, the heat painting her skin in gold.
She wore a sundress the same shade as her eyes, impossibly blue.
The cut was simple, nothing meant to tempt, but on her it was earth-shattering.
Milo’s gaze lingered, tracing the way the fabric shifted with her every step.
He could never get his fill, no matter what she had on…
though he’d always admit, he liked her best when there was nothing between his hands and her skin.
“That’s a surprise.” His smile was small, warm. For a moment, it felt like the early days—before the McGarvey problem, before the threat, before he tore her world apart. She’d been different since he’d given her the truth.
He hoped it stayed that way.
Titan lounged against the back door of Milo’s SUV, watching them approach. He was dressed in that polished, city-slick style Milo would’ve mocked on anyone else. But, on Titan, it fit like it had been made for him, which it had been. The guy had expensive taste and a tailor on speed dial.
The air still held the faint bite of fear.
Titan hadn’t forgotten the last time Milo’s temper had come out to play.
But Willow had made it clear that wouldn’t be happening again, and Milo wasn’t foolish enough to test her on it.
For all he knew, next time she’d be just as quick to bite as she was to bark.
They climbed in, the thud of three doors shutting in near-perfect unison, and Milo started the car. The SUV was quiet as Milo eased it down the long drive, gravel popping under the tires. Then Willow shifted in her seat, turning to pin Titan with a look.
“Where are we going, Titan?” Her tone was all sweetness, but there was something sinister coiled beneath it.
Titan blinked, caught between two bad options, displeasing her or displeasing Milo .
Milo spared him the decision. “Stop trying to make him get himself in trouble. It’s mean.”
Willow’s laugh burst out, bright and sudden, before she faced forward again. “Yeah, well, you’d know all about being mean.”
His smile was slow, deliberate. “Sweetheart, you haven’t seen mean yet. But keep being a naughty girl, and I’ll be happy to educate you later tonight. How do you feel about knees? Being bent over them?”
The shift in scent was instant, sharp, and undeniable, her body betraying exactly where her mind had gone. In the back seat, Titan groaned, thunking his head against the window.
“Can we not be gross, guys? Please?”
Willow smacked Milo’s arm in mock protest, echoing Titan’s sentiment. He only smiled wider, watching her lean forward to play with the radio, fingers twirling the dial.
He had a good feeling about tonight.