Page 1 of Taken By The Wolves (Blackwood Forest #2)

SCARLET

Never trust a stranger—friend;

No one knows how it will end.

As you’re pretty, so be wise;

Wolves may lurk in every guise.

Charles Perrault, Little Red Riding Hood.

The small-town bar in Baysville is no better than the run-down motel I checked into an hour ago, its sagging porch and weather-warped sign doing little to inspire confidence.

As I push open the doors, the interior greets me with the same weary air of neglect.

It’s rustic, but not in the way the word is usually meant.

It’s the kind of rustic that smells faintly of mildew and wet dog, with mismatched furniture that creaks when you lean on it and walls stained with the smoke of a hundred thousand unfiltered cigarettes.

I pause inside, my nose wrinkling instinctively as I inhale.

My sense of smell has always been bloodhound sharp, according to my mother, and right now it’s not doing me any favors.

My stomach chooses that moment to growl, a loud, awkward protest, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I almost turn around and leave, but there are few options in this town, and the receptionist at the motel, a tired-looking woman with too much eyeliner and too little patience, assured me this was the best place.

If Doug’s Place is the best, I don’t want to experience the worst.

Heads turn as I make my way toward the bar, masculine eyes, narrowing with interest or suspicion, tracking me like prey.

I’m not surprised. In a town like this, where everyone knows everyone and outsiders are a rarity, I must look like something exotic blown in on the wind.

My hair, a thick curtain of red that falls past my waist, tends to catch attention wherever I go.

With skin as pale as porcelain and a frame that’s more willowy than muscular, I know I don’t blend in easily.

The man behind the bar, who may or may not be Doug, saunters towards me as though he has all the time in the world. “What can I get you?”

“A beer,” I say without hesitation. His eyebrows lift slightly, as if he expected me to order a glass of chardonnay or something with a slice of citrus on the rim. “And a burger. If you serve them.”

“It’s our bestseller,” he says.

As he turns to relay the order to the back, I glance around, finding myself under the weight of several more stares. All male. In fact, I think I’m the only woman in the place.

“That’ll be twenty bucks,” he says as he returns.

I hand over the cash and try not to notice the grime beneath his chewed fingernails. I silently hope he isn’t also the cook and briefly pray that my burger comes straight from a factory freezer, untouched by human hands. It might be the only thing that saves me from food poisoning.

At least the beer is cold.

As I wait for my meal, I take a seat at the bar.

I like it better perched high with my back to the strange-looking, overly observant crowd.

I scroll through the emails on my phone, letting the low hum of conversation and twang of country music fill the space around me.

There’s a strange, charged energy in the air, like something’s about to happen. I try to ignore it.

My thoughts drift to the reason I’m here: a new commission, a full dining room suite for one of my most high-end clients.

They’ve bought a sprawling log cabin in Aspen, and they want it furnished with custom pieces that are as wild and authentic as the mountains themselves.

Rustic chic, they call it. And I’m known for that.

Which is why I’m here.

Furniture is all about the materials. Find a good quality piece of slow-grown wood, and you’re halfway to something exceptional. Braysville might be an armpit of a town, but it is famous for its lumber.

And its lumberjacks.

A few online reviews even mentioned the legendary hospitality of the locals, in and out of the bedroom.

I fan my hand in front of my face as a flush blooms across my cheeks.

It’s been a while since anyone provided me with any kind of bedroom hospitality, and the thought of a sexy woodcutter has my lady parts warming in addition to my face.

Unfortunately, this bar isn’t where the gorgeous, hospitable locals hang out.

It’s more Deliverance than a romance novel.

Keep your mind on the job at hand, I tell myself.

After my last boyfriend dumped me for my best friend, I locked my heart away.

It was humiliating. Not just the betrayal, but how easily it could happen, and while I’ve rebuilt myself piece by piece, there are cracks now that didn’t exist before.

Trust is a fragile thing, and once it’s broken, it doesn’t reform with the same strength.

I’ve found satisfaction in my work, particularly in meeting new clients and suppliers.

My family has been amazing at supporting me.

Still, there are nights when I crave more than solitude. Nights I lie awake aching for arms around me, for the weight and warmth of another body, for something wild and sweet and desperately needed. I hate that my body doesn’t understand the rules I’ve set.

The burger arrives, looking surprisingly edible. The fries are crisp and golden, and when I take a bite of the burger, it exceeds all expectations. My stomach hums in satisfaction as I devour it.

“That looks good.”

The voice comes from my right, deep and amused, and I glance up to find a man with an empty beer bottle standing beside me.

He’s handsome in that roughneck, blue-collar way, with dark hair, dark eyes, a day’s stubble on his jaw, and a plaid shirt that hugs a broad chest. His hands are big, calloused, but clean.

“It’s good,” I admit, swallowing quickly. “Better than expected.”

“I’ve had one before. You’re safe.”

His gaze flicks to my blouse, lingering a moment too long. I shift slightly in my seat, the air between us cooling. He’s not subtle, but he is my type.

“You new in town?” he asks.

“Just passing through. Business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Furniture,” I say. My tone is clipped now, a little defensive.

Something about his presence grates. Beware of strangers, my mom’s voice echoes in my head.

She’s obsessed with warnings about danger.

When I was a kid, it was about men who would come and take me away with sweet temptations or maybe cute puppies.

When I was a teen, it turned to men who were going to come to steal my innocence.

In recent years, there have been warnings about men who will hurt me.

Mostly, I’ve brushed it off, much to her annoyance.

She tells me that I won’t understand how hard it is until I’ve had a child of my own.

I haven’t told her it’s never going to happen.

There’s a niggle inside me, though, a niggle that makes me wonder if maybe she senses something bad in my future.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Buying or selling?” He gulps some of the beer the barman placed in front of him. He must have a tab because he isn’t asked to pay.

“Making. I’m here to buy raw materials.”

He laughs, a low chuckle that vibrates in his chest. “You don’t look like a carpenter.”

My hackles rise immediately. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“And what does a carpenter look like?”

The guy leans forward, his eyes leering and expression hungry. Call it intuition, but I don’t like him. I’ve met men like this before. Men who poke your sensitive places to get a response. Men who end up trying to destroy you in the end. “They’re usually bigger, with more facial hair than you.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” I take another bite of my burger to stop myself from saying more. I don’t need an altercation with this man in a strange bar in a strange town. I need to keep my wits about me.

I nod, still chewing. I wash it down with a long slug of beer, hoping he realizes from my food and my drink choices that I’m no salad-eating, mimosa-drinking wallflower.

I wish I had the guts to tell him to leave me alone now.

His presence is taking the edge off my delicious meal and leaving me with a sour taste in my mouth.

“I bet they can,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You, for example. You wear your clothes crisp and white, but I bet you’re nothing like that underneath.”

“What I am underneath is none of your business,” I say coolly. “And now I need to eat my burger. Enjoy your night.” I swivel a little on my stool so my back is directed toward him, hoping he’ll take the hint.

“Oh, it’s like that,” he says, laughing ominously. “I wouldn’t have expected anything else.”

I don’t reply and use my phone as a distraction while I chew a mouthful.

Mom has sent me a message to ask me if I’m okay.

Her Spidey sense is working in full force.

I wonder what she’d say if she could see me now.

She’d probably lock me in her basement and throw away the key.

At least until my handsome prince comes knocking.

I type back, ‘All well. I checked in at the hotel. I’m having dinner.’ She sends me a smiley face emoji that makes me laugh. Until last month, Mom didn’t know what an emoji was. Now, she’s at the point of overusing them.

I don’t turn to check if the man has gone. I know he has. It’s strange how deeply I sense his absence, like the air around me shifted back into place. He never touched me, but there was an unsettling clash between his presence and my aura.

The burger and fries hit the spot, and the beer warms and relaxes me. The clench of anxiety he left behind eases. No one else bothers me while I eat, and by the time I’m done, the bar is busier and noisier.

It’s time to leave. I don’t want to be here when the night turns rough.

Sliding off the barstool, I tuck my phone into my purse and sling it over my shoulder. My thoughts are already with the creaky motel bed that waits for me like a quiet reward.