Page 3 of Taken By The Wolves (Blackwood Forest #2)

SCARLET

“Do you need help?” He makes his way closer, his eyes roaming my leg and foot to where I’ve been keeping my weight off my swollen ankle.

“I twisted it,” I say. “It hurts to walk.”

“Here…let me…” He reaches for the makeshift walking stick I’d been leaning on, his hand brushing mine for the briefest moment.

I expect him to drape my arm over his shoulder or offer a slow, awkward hobble back toward safety.

But he does none of that. Instead, with a swift movement and effortless confidence, he lifts me into his arms like I weigh less than air.

I gasp as I cling to him instinctively, worrying he might drop me.

My face flushes hot, blazing like a sunset.

His arms are like sculpted stone wrapped in heat, and his chest is a wall of muscle that smells like pine needles crushed beneath boots, like cedar smoke curling in the wind, like leather warmed by sunlight.

It’s woodsy and earthy and perfect for this lumberjack look-alike.

“You don’t have to carry me,” I stammer, though I make no move to escape. My hero doesn’t seem to care, and it feels too good, too safe, to be held like this.

“Shoes like that don’t do well in Braysville,” he says, his mouth quirking slightly.

“You have roads and sidewalks,” I mutter. “And I can walk fine when I’m not being ambushed by hillbilly assholes.”

He chuckles, walking carefully as he weaves through the thickening darkness of the forest, always careful to keep me clear of low-hanging branches and twisted roots.

“What’s your name?” It seems the polite thing to ask.

“Nixon,” he says. “And yours?”

“Scarlet.”

His gaze dips to meet mine, and in the shadows, his eyes catch what little light remains, twin points of gleaming sapphire. “Red,” he says, a slow smirk blooming on his mouth. “Like Little Red Riding Hood?”

I roll my eyes with a sigh, too tired to be offended, though the comparison grates. “No. Like Scarlet. No muffins in my basket. Just chisels and screwdrivers.”

“Red Riding Hood was dumb. She did everything her momma told her not to, and the only reason she survived was because she was rescued by a man.” Even as I say it, I realize that I’m pretty much in the exact same situation.

Woodcutter and wolves to the rescue.

His eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t ask me what the hell I’m talking about. He’s clearly not the kind of man who wastes words unless he has to.

“I’m staying at the motel,” I tell him. “The one on the edge of town. My car is there, too.”

He tightens his grip a little, and I’m drawn even closer against his chest. The motion makes my breath catch. His heartbeat is slow, steady, and calming.

“You know,” I say, trying to get a handle on the weird energy between us, “if you’re getting tired, I can walk… with help. Rest my arm over your shoulder.”

His jaw ticks like I’ve challenged him. “Do I look like I’m getting tired?”

Wow. Fragile male ego. That didn’t take long. Still, there’s no strain in his steps, no sag in his posture. He carries me like I’m made of down feathers and light.

“No,” I say carefully. “But if you do... You know, just tell me.”

“I won’t.”

That’s it. Two words. Ironclad.

And maybe it’s the way he says them or the way the trees part for him like they’re not foolish enough to get in his way, but I believe him.

I think he’ll carry me all the way back to the motel and won’t slow once.

I believe he’d run through fire if he needed to.

There’s something otherworldly in him. Not only strength, but purpose.

It’s insane to trust a man I just met. But whatever danger stalked me tonight, it isn’t with this man. With Nixon.

The forest is still around us now, but in the quiet hush of leaves and the rustling wind, safety wraps around me like a warm blanket, even if I don’t yet understand why.

“Is there a doctor in town? A hospital?”

“I don’t think you need a doctor for a simple sprain.”

I raise a brow. “And you can tell that by looking at my foot? Through the sock?”

He exhales long and slow, like he’s exercising monk-level patience. Or trying to. “If anything was broken, you’d be crying. You’re not. It’s swollen, yeah, but it needs ice and something for inflammation. Nothing serious.”

“Well, thank you, Doctor Forrest-Gump, for your sage medical advice, but I think I’ll get a scan done anyway, in case your backwoods x-ray vision has a glitch.”

“Backwoods x-ray vision?” He blinks, then lets out a deep, rumbling laugh that rolls through his chest and vibrates into mine.

I don’t laugh. I sit in his arms, stiff as a board, because the longer he holds me, the more I realize I’m completely at his mercy.

I’ve been attacked, rescued, and now abducted all in the same night, and I still don’t even know if I’m safe.

It’s too dark to see much of the path we’re on, but he strides forward without hesitation, feet silent on the forest floor, as if he knows every bend and root by memory.

I open my mouth to insist again that he put me down when the trees break open, and we emerge into a clearing.

Encircling a cabin.

A beautifully built one, with handcrafted joints, timber that looks older than Croesus, perfect angles and proportions. But the second realization comes with a cold rush.

This isn’t the motel. We’re not in town.

My stomach lurches as panic punches the air from my lungs. I struggle, but he clutches me tighter.

He didn’t take me to help. He didn’t take me toward people. He took me to a secluded house in the woods, and I still don’t know who he is or what he wants.

I squirm in his arms, instinct kicking hard. “Let me go,” I say, struggling against his hold.

His grip tightens, iron-hard and unyielding. His jaw clenches, and that calm mask cracks. “You’re not walking anywhere on that ankle. You won’t get far.”

“I don’t care,” I snap. “Take me back to the motel. I’ll crawl if I have to.”

“You don’t need to be scared of me.”

But I am.

Because no woman should ever be carried away into the woods by a stranger, no matter how square his jaw or how perfect his beard or how impossibly chiseled his chest might be beneath that flannel. No matter how heroically he saved her. Nixon is a man who doesn’t bend or break. That much is obvious.

“You can rest here,” he says. “I’m going to take a look at that ankle and see what we can do to make it better.”

“I don’t want to go into your cabin,” I hiss, my voice trembling. “Do you understand me? Take me back.”

He keeps walking with determination, like a man so used to getting his way, he doesn’t even register protest as resistance.

By the time we reach the porch, I’ve kicked and twisted enough to throw my balance, and when he finally sets me onto my feet, I stupidly try to stand. Pain explodes through my ankle, and I crumble with a sharp cry.

He catches me instantly, his hand closing around my elbow. It’s hard to tell if it’s support or restraint. Maybe both.

He’s quick to unlock the door to the cabin, and when he throws it open and guides me through it, I forget my name.

Because inside… It’s breathtaking.

The walls are paneled with slow-grown wood, rich and warm, polished smoothly. The furniture is handcrafted perfection with clean, classic lines that suggest obsession with symmetry and pride in detail. It’s not rustic kitsch. It’s art. Living, breathing, masculine art.

My mouth parts in a silent gasp of awe.

This isn’t a cabin. It’s a cathedral to craftsmanship.

My clients in Aspen would sell their souls to replicate this.

Nixon guides me into the center of the open-plan room and closes the door behind us. The sound of the latch clicks.

And just like that… I realize I’m trapped.

Not by a man with cruel eyes and yellow teeth...

But who is Nixon, and what does he want with me?