37. Willow
WILLOW
W illow lay curled on her side in the darkness, her arms wound tight around a pillow as if it could keep her from falling apart. The room was quiet but for the soft, uneven sound of her own breathing—hitching, stifled sobs pressed into the cotton so no one would hear.
She tried not to think about their superhearing, and the fact that they probably could hear her anyway.
Her body shook with the weight of it, a life inside her.
The words plastered across her brain like a map of clues she couldn’t make sense of.
She hadn’t asked for this, hadn’t dreamed of it.
And yet, there it was—woven into her blood, rooted in her uterus, threatening to change everything about her life once again.
Her fingers clutched harder at the pillow. She didn’t even know what she wanted. The idea of a child was terrifying enough, but the thought of becoming a mother in this world—one filled with violence, betrayal, and monsters she hadn’t even known existed a month ago—made her feel sick.
She loved Milo. Or at least, she was circling dangerously close to it.
That was the problem. The thought of breaking him, of watching his face when she told him she didn’t want this, that she wanted it gone, turned her stomach inside out.
His entire being seemed wired for legacy, for pack, for bloodline…
But she wanted her freedom.
She buried her face deeper into the pillow, hot tears spilling freely now. If she kept it, she wasn’t sure she’d survive it. If she ended it, she wasn’t sure their bond would. Panic clawed through her chest, sharp and merciless, until she thought she might choke on it.
Her tears slowed but didn’t stop. She stared into the darkness, vision blurred and eyes painful, thoughts circling like vultures.
Would Milo even let her have an abortion?
The question bled through her mind before she could stop it, and the horror of it nearly broke her. She’d heard stories—women trapped in situations where their partners decided for them. Bodies treated like vessels. Dreams discarded because a man’s decision weighed heavier.
And Milo… God, Milo was not just a man. He was an alpha. His world ran on dominance, on control. If she told him she didn’t want this, would he tighten the chain around her neck? Would he see her body as his to claim, his right to dictate?
The thought made her shake harder, clutching her stomach with trembling hands.
Already, her mind replayed his protectiveness, his intensity, the way his voice roughened when he talked about mating and bonds.
He was overwhelming at the best of times.
How would he be now, with something that shared their DNA between them?
Willow buried her face in the pillow again, muffling a sob. She didn’t want to lose him. But she didn’t want to lose herself either.
The bedroom door opened with the faintest creak, soft enough that she might have missed it if not for the way her heart immediately jumped into her throat. Milo didn’t say a word. His footsteps padded across the floor, steady, careful, and then the mattress dipped behind her.
A warm arm slid around her waist, slow and unthreatening, pulling her back against the familiar breadth of his chest. His breath fanned over her hair as he pressed his face to the crown of her head, just holding her, giving her time.
Willow trembled, fighting to keep quiet, but the moment she turned in his arms and met the solid wall of him, the dam broke. She buried her face against his chest and sobbed, her hands fisting into his shirt like she might drown without him there to keep her afloat.
He tightened his hold, murmuring into her hair, “Shh, sweetheart. I’ve got you.
I’ve got you.” He let her cry, his hands stroking down her spine, his chin resting atop her head.
And then, when her body finally slowed in its shaking, he whispered, raw and unguarded, “I love you, Willow. That doesn’t change. Not with this. Not with anything.”
Her throat clenched painfully. She dragged in a shaky breath, her voice muffled against him. “I don’t know what to do, Milo. I don’t know if I can—” Her words broke into another sob, tears soaking through his shirt. “I don’t know.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was forcing himself to be calm when he wanted to be anything but.
One of his hands cupped the back of her head, tilting her gently so he could look at her.
His gaze was steady, fierce in its softness.
“Then you don’t have to decide right now.
We’ll figure it out together. But listen to me, Willow…
” His thumb brushed her cheek, wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.
“What matters is what you want. No one else. Not even me.”
Her chest heaved, a ragged sob escaping as she collapsed against him again, clinging to him as if she were afraid he’d vanish. “I don’t know,” she wailed into his skin, the words breaking on every syllable.
He held her through it, strong and unyielding, whispering the same words over and over into the darkness. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Whatever you decide, I’ve got you.”
Her tears finally ebbed into hiccuping breaths, her body still trembling but no longer wracked with sobs.
Milo’s warmth surrounded her, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm beneath her cheek.
The silence stretched, weighted but safe, until Willow forced herself to lift her head, blinking at him through swollen eyes.
Her voice was raw, quiet but resolute. “I don’t want this, Milo. I can’t… I want an abortion.” The words cracked at the edges, but she held onto them, bracing herself for the fight she expected to come.
But it didn’t.
Milo’s expression softened instead of hardening, his thumb brushing the damp trail of tears from her cheek. “Okay,” he said simply, his voice low and steady. No judgment. No hesitation. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
Her throat closed up, disbelief written across her face. “You’re… you’re not angry?”
He shook his head, pressing his forehead gently against hers.
“No, sweetheart. Never at you. This is your body, not mine. If this is what you want, then that’s what happens.
Lachlan will make sure it’s safe, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.
” His hand came to rest against her side, grounding her, steady as stone. “It’s going to be okay.”
Willow’s lip trembled, her chest clenching with something sharp—relief so strong it hurt. She stared at him, wide-eyed, as though trying to see if there was some hidden condition in his words. But there wasn’t.
He meant it.
She collapsed back into him, her face pressed to his chest again, a sob breaking free—not of fear, but of gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words muffled but soaked with every ounce of her shaking relief.
Milo only kissed the crown of her head and held her tighter. “Always, baby. Whatever you need.”
Willow’s sobs quieted again, her breaths finally finding some fragile rhythm against him.
Milo smoothed a hand down her back, the tension in his chest easing as he felt her start to steady.
He kissed her temple, lingering there a moment before murmuring, “You’ve had enough heaviness for one day, sweetheart. ”
He shifted just slightly, the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth.
“Let’s get cleaned up,” he purred, the words low and edged with meaning.
His tone promised more than just a shower—it was an invitation, a reminder that he wanted her, not out of duty, not out of circumstance, but because she was his and he adored her.
Willow bit her lip, nodding slowly, already being swept up by the heat building in her body.
***
Milo scooped her up as though she weighed nothing, his arms steady, his chest unshakable against her cheek.
Willow clung to him out of instinct more than need, her tears drying into his shirt as he carried her into the en suite.
She felt the sway of his stride, the grounding calm of him, and by the time they reached the bathroom, her body had relaxed in his arms.
He set her down gently, making sure she was steady on her feet before letting her go.
His hands lingered a second longer than necessary, brushing down her arms, reassuring without words.
Willow watched as he reached for the hem of her shirt, lifting it slowly.
His movements weren’t urgent, weren’t hungry.
They were careful, tender, deliberate—as if each button, each sleeve, each shift of fabric was some small act of devotion.
Her breath caught as he knelt briefly to peel her socks from her feet, pressing a kiss to her knee before standing again. There was no shame in it, no heat beyond the warmth of his love. Just Milo, her Milo, taking care of her.
He turned to the shower, twisting the handle until steam rose, then tested the water with his palm. A frown, an adjustment, another check, until his features softened in approval. Only then did he begin tugging off his own shirt, his belt, setting each piece aside with quiet efficiency.
When he was finished, he reached for her hand. His fingers twined with hers, tugging her gently toward the spray. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice rich and grounding.
She went with him, letting the heat of the water and the warmth of his presence wash over her at once, her body and heart caught between comfort and ache.
The heat of the water cascaded over her shoulders, washing away the remnants of her tears from her scrunched face. Steam curled around them, softening the edges of the world until it felt like there was only this—her and Milo, cocooned together.
Willow let her eyes wander, drinking him in.
The water clung to him in rivulets, sliding down his thick neck, tracing the ridges of muscle across his abdomen, catching in the dark trail of hair that disappeared lower.
Every inch of him seemed carved with purpose, forged by strength and discipline, but softened now in the intimacy of this moment.
She couldn’t stop herself from staring, from marveling at how someone could look both dangerous and inviting at once.
Milo caught her gaze and smiled, that slow, crooked expression that always undid her. He stepped closer, lifting a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her damp skin. “You’re staring,” he teased, as though he didn’t mind at all.
Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her body moving of its own accord. Their mouths met softly at first, tentative, the kind of kiss meant to soothe rather than ignite. She tasted water and warmth and him, steady and familiar.
But as his hand slid to cradle the back of her head and hers pressed against the solid plane of his chest, the kiss deepened. Not hurried, not desperate—just lingering, tender, as if both of them were afraid to break the fragile peace that had settled over them.
Willow sighed against him, her body melting under the spray, and Milo kissed her slower still, savoring, steadying her as the world slipped away.