Page 13 of Taken By The Wolves (Blackwood Forest #2)

SCARLET

Morning arrives with a warm, decadent haze that softens my edges with the memory of Nixon’s mouth.

I blink until my eyes become accustomed to the soft light filtering through unfamiliar curtains.

My skin tingles with awareness and my thighs are heavy and tender with a sweetness I haven’t felt in far too long.

I lie still, tucked under a thick blanket that smells like the forest, and replay the night in flashes.

Reed, Finn, and Nixon’s voices, low and commanding, teasing out my secrets and revealing theirs. The heat of Nixon’s mouth on mine and his hand sliding between my legs. The way they all watched me unravel, as if they’d planned it all along.

It doesn’t feel real. More like something I imagined in a wine-drunk and lust-dazed state. A fantasy I coaxed out of my deepest, most shameful longings.

But it happened. The orgasm that’s still blooming somewhere deep inside me, like a phantom echo pulsing in my core, and the way I opened myself, emotionally, confessing things I hadn’t even admitted to myself.

Things about my past, my loneliness, my hunger for more.

I told them truths I’ve held locked behind my ribs like fragile glass, and they didn’t laugh.

And God, the way Nixon touched with patience and devastating confidence, then walked away, leaving me aching for more. It undid something in me. It shifted the axis of whatever I thought I wanted, replacing it with desire for more.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and pause, stretching, still half-expecting my body to ache from too much tension or not enough sleep. But I’m loose like my bones melted eight hours ago and haven’t yet knitted themselves back together.

When I open the bedroom door, the warm, homey scent of bacon and brewed coffee curls through the air, but what makes my breath catch isn’t breakfast. It’s the single red rose lying on the floor outside my door.

A perfect bloom, the color of unripe cherries, wrapped at the base in rustic twine. And a note. Something scarlet for Scarlet.

My throat tightens with emotion, and I stoop slowly to pick it up, brushing my fingers along the velvety petals, the scent heady and lush. It’s a gift more intimate than any I’ve received before, this small gesture, thoughtful and precise.

I hobble down to find Reed and Nixon in the kitchen, dressed in jeans and rumpled shirts, casual and maddeningly handsome in the way only men who don’t try to be handsome can be.

Reed leans against the counter, sipping coffee, while Nixon stands at the stove flipping bacon with determined precision.

They both glance up when I enter.

Reed grins and crosses the room in two strides, pressing a kiss to my cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Nixon, who’s less overt but no less present, brushes a hand along my spine as I pass, and then kisses my lips so softly, I find myself leaning in for more when he pulls away.

His palm warms through the fabric of my shirt.

They’re affectionate, but it’s like they’re deliberately pulling back, giving me space to think. But Reed’s gaze lingers, and Nixon’s fingers graze mine as he passes me a cup of coffee, and need inside me coils tighter.

“Sleep okay?” Reed asks, voice thick with insinuation, one brow raised as he watches me from across the kitchen island. “You look... relaxed.”

I arch an eyebrow, already reaching for the creamer. “Better than expected, considering I slept in a stranger’s bed.”

“That bed’s not a stranger anymore,” he says with a wink. “And neither are we… especially Nixon.”

Nixon makes a low sound that’s probably meant to be disapproving, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, like he’s remembering the way I taste, as he sets a plate of eggs and toast in front of me.

“This is too much,” I say, overwhelmed by the portion.

“You need to keep your strength up… give your body a chance to heal.”

“And…” Reed grins, “for energy.”

Energy? Jesus.

“You have a good appetite?” he asks, more seriously. “You’ll need it.”

“We’re heading out to the lumberyard today. You’re welcome to come if you want to finalize your order. But tonight—” Nixon glances toward the window, where the trees sway like dark sentinels in the morning breeze. “—we thought we’d grill. Eat outside if the weather holds.”

“Outside?” I sip my coffee. “Is that safe? Aren’t there... wild things in these woods?”

Reed leans in, voice low. “Only if you wander off the path.”

Finn appears at the back door, smiling. “Or if you invite them in.”

I blink. The way they exchange subtle and unreadable glances sets something twisting low in my gut.

“Speaking of wild things,” I say slowly, “what happened to that giant dog?”

There’s a pause. One breath too long. The kind that reveals secrets lurking beneath.

Finn clears his throat. “He’s tame. You don’t have to worry about him. He goes where he wants.”

Nixon follows with a nod. Reed grins into his coffee like a man remembering a joke.

Right. That’s not suspicious at all.

I let it drop for now, even as questions needle at me.

“What can I contribute tonight?” I ask instead. “I guess your grilling expertise doesn’t extend to dessert.”

Reed perks up. “Dessert?”

I shrug. “I make a mean muffin. Blueberry. Sometimes apple-cinnamon if I’m in an ambitious mood.”

“Apple,” Finn says quietly.

Reed tilts his head. “We’ll need to supervise that. Thoroughly. Taste-test the batter. Maybe twice.”

“You’re our guest,” Nixon says. “You don’t have to cook.”

“Maybe not,” I reply, “but I don’t want to lie around looking pretty while you do all the work.”

Reed leans forward, grin sharpening. “Lying around looking pretty is exactly what I want you to do.”

“Don’t mind him,” Finn murmurs. “He was raised by wolves.”

I snort. Nixon’s mouth twitches.

Outside, the sun is climbing past the treetops, and everything feels normal. A woman and three men in a cabin in the woods, drinking coffee and making plans, as if the tension isn’t palpable and the world outside these walls doesn’t thrum with danger.

This could be a life for another woman who didn’t know the danger of strangers and wasn’t sure that her brokenness would fracture anything good.

As Nixon and Reed leave for the lumberyard, Reed throws a wink over his shoulder and says, “Try not to seduce Finn while we’re gone.”

“I’ll do my best,” I murmur, but the smile that pulls at my mouth contains more than humor. Even though I’d never admit it, the idea of kissing Finn, and discovering if he kisses like his stern brother, is what I’m thinking about as they leave.

Finn stays behind. He’s quieter and more restrained than the others, but there’s a magnetism in his calm and silence that draws me in. He’s a kindred spirit with his creativity, and I find that artistic part of him intriguing.

“I want to show you something,” he says after a moment.

“Sure.” I grab my crutch in readiness.

Finn walks out back to a workshop nestled between the trees.

I’m still hobbling, but my mobility has improved overnight.

His place of work is a rustic outbuilding with sunlight pouring through sawdust-clouded windows onto rows of tools, carved wood, and unfinished projects that hum with potential.

The space is warm and smells like pine and varnish, scents that are familiar and relaxing.

“This is where I work,” he says simply, watching as I take it all in.

I run my fingers over a narrow table, the scrollwork delicate and elegant, the craftsmanship so fine. “You made this?”

“Yeah. From ash. Good for detail. Strong.”

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, and I mean it. Not just the table but the whole space that exudes the same calm energy as Finn.

“You should sell them,” I say. “I could list them on my website. I know people who would love these.”

He hesitates. “I don’t think—”

“Let me try a few pieces. You can decide the prices. I won’t take a cut until I prove there’s demand.”

He looks at me for a long moment, then gives a reluctant nod. “It’s not about the money, Scarlet, but okay.”

His pause tightens my belly. We’re standing too close.

There’s something carved into the lines of his face, and his dark eyes hold mine, staring like he sees into places I usually keep locked.

His forearms flex with quiet strength, veins and tendons shifting beneath sun-kissed skin, and his hands…

God, those hands. Rough from his works, but elegance in motion.

Beautiful, not because of what they look like but for what they can craft.

I wonder what they’d feel like on my waist and in my hair, maybe between my thighs.

His hand brushes mine, and the air tightens between us.

His gaze drops to my mouth, and my heart trips in my chest.

For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.

I want him to kiss me.

Would it burn with the same heat as Nixon’s, or would it be softer and quieter, like Finn?

He steps back instead, clears his throat, and turns away, and the loss of his attention is so sharp it surprises me.

“How about this?” he says, waving toward a small table. “And this?” The chair is intricately carved and mirror-polished.

“Definitely. What about this?”

I trail my fingers over a shelving unit with flared legs that seem to emerge from the ground like they’re anchored to roots.

“Okay.”

“I can do it now, if you price them.”

He pulls out a worn, yellowed notebook that curls at the edges. His pen, in contrast, is a beautiful, gold-tipped fountain pen, and his writing is an elegant cursive that fills me with envy for its neatness.

I lean my crutch against the wall and shuffle into position to photograph the items. I can crop them and adjust the backgrounds to better match my website theme.

In a matter of minutes, I have the images completed.

Finn passes me his costs and the price he’d like to charge for each piece, which are way below what I’d have suggested.

Taking the pen from his hand, I write the prices I’m going to list next to his.

“Seriously?”

“Trust me,” I say. “Rich people don’t value anything cheap.”

He shakes his head. “You have people who pay that much.”

“For craftsmanship like this? Of course. These are unique pieces with an origin story. Can I take a picture of you to feature? People love to see the creator responsible.”

He seems reluctant, but I hold up my phone.

“I’m not smiling,” he says, through gritted teeth.

“Even better. Nothing appeals more than a handsome, tortured artist.”

“Three descriptors that have never been applied to me.”

I stare at him through the screen, wondering how that could be true. His features are artful and beautiful in a way that hurts to look at for too long. There’s a wildness to him that makes me want to discover more.

“What about a bio?”

“Whatever you think?” He shakes his head. “Nixon won’t like this.”

“Why?”

“He’s a private person.”

“So, don’t tell him. If nothing sells, no harm, no foul.”

Finn hesitates, rubbing between his eyes.

Jeez. He’s really stressed about his brother’s reaction in a way that doesn’t seem rational. Why does Nixon have so much power over what Finn does, and why the desire for privacy?

I sit on a low workbench, working on the images as Finn sweeps the floor and collects the wood dust in a dustpan and brush.

When I’ve completed Finn’s page and added the chair, I notice that I have service.

Messages from my mom and friends spill into my inbox, but I’m driven to complete this task while I can.

I finish my edits and pull up the live webpage.

He takes my phone, squinting at his photo and the edited image of his masterpiece in wood.

“You did all this now?”

He meets my eyes, and my heart stutters.

“Yeah. Is it good? I can get the others up now.”

“It’s…” He shakes his head. “You’re really something, Scarlet.”

I’m not a woman who blushes easily, but I do now. To distract from my raging flush, I take my phone and add the small table, but it rings in my hand before I get a chance. Finn startles, then leans back against his workbench, folding his muscular arms across his broad chest.

“Hello?”

“Scarlet, Hi! It’s Amber Sinclair. I saw the chair you listed, and I want it. Tell me it hasn’t sold yet.”

“No. Not yet.”

Finn tips his head to one side.

“He’s a new furniture designer, right?” she asks.

“He’s well established in his small town,” I tell her. “I was lucky to get some pieces from his current collection.”

“Could he make another one?” she asks. “A matching set?”

“Well, it won’t be a perfect match,” I say. “That’s the beauty of what he makes. It showcases the wood, and each piece will have unique aspects.”

“That’s perfect,” Amber says. “I’ll transfer the money for both now.”

I mouth to Finn, “When can you finish another chair?”

He’s startled, straightening and uncrossing his arms. “Two weeks?”

“Delivery will be in five weeks,” I say. “Does that work for you?”

“Perfect.” She sighs. “I can’t believe how perfect they’ll be for the hallway in our cabin.”

“I’m so happy you like Finn’s work.”

We say our goodbyes, and I smile as Amber’s payment lands in my account immediately. That woman is the perfect customer.

“One down,” I say. “I hope you’re ready to get to work. I suspect you’re going to be rushed off your feet.”

Finn shakes his head, the corners of his lips lifting. “If Nixon doesn’t have anything to say about it.”