36. Milo
MILO
T he garden was overgrown, a tangle of weeds that had swallowed the beds whole and choked the pathways between them. Milo stood with his arms folded across his chest, boots planted in the dirt as he surveyed the wreckage.
It hadn’t been touched in years—not since he had tended it as a boy and then a young man, hands raw from pulling weeds and learning which plants needed pruning, which needed patience. Back then, the garden had thrived. Back then, it had been something beautiful.
Now, it looked like a graveyard of all the dreams he had held while he was young.
Milo exhaled through his nose, shaking his head at himself. A soldier, a commander, a killer—and here he was, thinking about fertilizer ratios and whether or not the soil was too acidic to hold basil.
But maybe that was the point.
Milo crouched, dragging a broad palm through the dark earth, and for the first time in years, he thought about what it would mean to rebuild something instead of tearing it apart.
The idea of starting the garden again settled strangely in his chest. Maybe Willow would like it.
She deserved beauty. She deserved peace.
And if he could give her that in the form of a garden, then he would.
His mind drifted—inevitably, always—to her. To the way she’ d looked at him that night a couple weeks back when they’d first made love, hesitant but unafraid, to the tremor in her voice when she’d asked him what it would mean to be knotted.
She hadn’t run. She’d listened, thought about it, and still, she was willing .
The relief that swept through him at the memory was staggering.
The beast inside him, always so close to the surface when she was near quieted in that remembrance.
She would let him claim her fully, bind her to him under the moon.
The mate bond would no longer be a fragile thread but something unbreakable. Permanent.
Milo straightened, brushing the dirt from his hands, and looked over the tangled mess again.
It would take weeks of work, patience, and persistence.
But he could picture it already—sunlight catching on budding flowers, herbs spilling over wooden beds, Willow wandering barefoot between the rows with a watering can.
Milo left the garden behind, brushing the dirt from his palms as he stepped back into the house.
The shift in air was immediate—cooler, quieter, but not without its own kind of chaos due to their newest additions.
The kittens came barreling through the kitchen like tiny streaks of furry lightning, one skidding across the tile before regaining balance with a startled chirp.
He leaned against the counter, arms folded as he watched them tumble over each other.
Already, they’d doubled in size since he and Willow had brought them home.
Their paws didn’t look so oversized anymore, their eyes sharper, more alert.
A few more weeks and they’d start losing that fragile kitten clumsiness, turning into proper little predators.
His chest tightened in a way he wasn’t ready to put words to. Too damn fast. Everything felt like it was moving too damn fast, and it all seemed to be going so well. His stomach tightened. It couldn’t stay that way. It wouldn’t. He hated that.
The back door clicked, followed by the sound of shoes scuffing on tile and the unmistakable scent of his packmate. Milo looked up just as Lachlan trudged in, peeling off his jacket with the sluggish motions of a man who’d gone far too long without real rest.
His hair was mussed, his purple scrubs wrinkled, and there was a shadow to his face that spoke louder than any words could.
“Long shift?” Milo asked, voice low.
Lachlan dropped the jacket over a chair, exhaling like the weight of the day was still pressing on his shoulders.
“Thirty-six hours, I think. I stopped counting after the twentieth.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes half-shut, then glanced toward the kittens now attacking one another under the table.
“At least someone in this house is thriving.”
Milo let out a faint huff of amusement, though his gaze didn’t leave Lachlan. He looked hollow, but grounded—same as always after a shift like that.
Lachlan dropped onto one of the stools at the island, propping his elbow on the counter and letting his cheek sink into his palm. He studied Milo with that slow, heavy stare that came after too many hours engaging his brain.
“Any updates on Jenner? Or anything else I should know?”
Milo leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “Touched base with our friend in the shipping container.”
Lachlan’s lip quirked. “Still in the shipping container?”
“Yes.”
“Y’know, I really think it’s part of his charm.”
A dry laugh passed Milo’s lips. “Jenner’s been… doing nothing. Which, honestly, is worse. He’s pulled away from his pack, but no one can make sense of why. It’s like he’s on a vacation of some sort.”
Lachlan’s eyes went unfocused as he processed, expression flat but alive beneath the exhaustion.
Always thinking, always pulling strings together in his head even when the rest of him was running on fumes.
Milo felt a rush of relief having him home again.
For all the sidearms they carried, Lachlan’s mind was still one of their sharpest weapons.
“Think he had a falling out with McGarvey?”
“Doubt it.” Milo’s answer was immediate. “He wouldn’t walk away from that alive. Jenner’s the brains, sure—but at the end of the day, he’s still expendable if McGarvey thinks he’s going AWOL.”
Lachlan straightened in his seat, fatigue pushed aside as his gaze sharpened on Milo. “Then what if it’s deliberate? What if they’re trying to split your focus?”
Milo’s jaw flexed as he considered it, arms folding across his chest. His head tilted, weighing the words. It wasn’t impossible. In fact, the idea slotted into place far too neatly.
“But what exactly are they trying to pull me away from?” Milo asked, voice low.
“Does it matter?” Lachlan countered, tone steady but edged with weariness. “You’re pulled in a dozen directions already. That’s the whole point—you won’t see the primary objective if you’re chasing all these offshoots. Jenner’s little disappearing act feels like the biggest carrot, so to speak.”
“Yeah?” Milo’s lip curled. “Well, I’m about ready to shove that carrot straight up his weasel ass.”
Lachlan’s laugh cracked the tension, soft but genuine, his eyes narrowing with amusement.
“Milo, you cannot still hate him for things that happened when we were kids.”
“I sure can, actually.”
“He was a little boy.”
“He was a slimy tattletale.”
“He’s a grown man now.”
“He’s just a bigger, slimier tattletale.”
“Oh, good lord. Here we go.” Lachlan pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Let me grab a chair.”
“You’re already sitting.”
“I’ll need another.”
Before he could retort, he felt her. But, milliseconds before that, he smelled her.
And so did Lachlan.
Both men froze at once, realization striking like lightning, their eyes widening in unison. Lachlan rose slowly from his chair, and together they moved toward her—silent, deliberate, almost predatory in the way they closed the distance.
To her credit, Willow didn’t shrink back.
But the shift in their energy had her stiffening, brows drawing tight as her gaze darted between them.
The air was charged, heavy with something unseen, and still she held her ground, even when they leaned in, tentative and testing the air like hounds on a trail.
Milo hardly registered her sharp, impatient look. The annoyed confusion on her face drowned beneath the tidal wave of hormones and instinct. His body was taut as a nocked arrow, pulse stretching long and slow as he straightened, Lachlan mirroring the motion at his side.
“What are you doing?” Willow demanded at last, her voice tight with exasperation, though there was a thread of unease beneath it.
Milo’s throat worked. The words didn’t come easily, but his chest ached with the wonder of it. “Willow, sweetheart…” He paused, eyes alight, caught between awe and disbelief. “You’re pregnant.”
He would never forget the way her expression shifted in that heartbeat. Annoyance faltered into shock. And then, like glass fracturing, devastation exploded across her face.