A Wolf of War (The Tooth & Claw Duet Book 1), page 13
“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.
25
WILLOW
Willow 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.”
26
MILO
Milo’s eyes opened slowly to the gray wash of dawn light stretching through the heavy curtains. His body felt unusually still, his limbs weighted with a phantom of sleep that didn’t quite want to let go. But his mind was already moving, pulling him back through the veil of the night before.
Willow.
He could still feel the burn of her anger, sharp and sudden. The way her voice had cracked with betrayal, the fire in her eyes when she realized the dreamscape wasn’t just a coincidence.
But that wasn’t what lingered.
What lingered was the way she had crawled toward him. The softness in her voice before the storm arrived. The tentative press of her body against his chest. The quiet ache in her kiss.
She came to me.
It hadn’t been his doing this time. He hadn’t reached for her—hadn’t pulled her through the bond. She’d called to him, even if she didn’t understand it yet. Something inside her had reached out in the dark, and that meant more to him than anything she could’ve said.
He laid a forearm over his eyes and exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
There was hope.
She was still softening.
Milo sat up, the sheets falling away from his chest as he planted his feet on the cold wood floor. Now that he was awake, the quiet of the morning wasn’t comforting—it was loaded. Too quiet, like the hush that came before a firefight. He rolled his shoulders, muscles tight from tension he hadn’t worked out in days. Maybe he’d take it out on the bag later. Maybe the range.
