Page 6 of Taken By The Wolves (Blackwood Forest #2)

SCARLET

I don't sleep well. Not that I expected to.

My nerves keep straddling that thin line between slumber and wakefulness all night long.

My ankle throbs steadily beneath the covers, a dull drumbeat that won't let me forget it's there.

And every creak of the old cabin, every rustle of wind through the trees, jolts my already-frayed senses.

Which is a shame because the bed is easily the most comfortable I've ever been in. I sink into the mattress like a fairy tale princess. There's even a hand-crocheted blanket folded at the foot of the bed, something that makes me smile at first, until the thought hits.

None of the men in this house looks like the type to make something soft and delicate. It's the kind of blanket a grandma would make.

Nixon, Reed, and Finn look like the kind who sleep under the stars, who fight, who live rough and thrive in it. Men made to survive. Soldiers, not homemakers. Wilderness types at home with wolves in the wilderness, not in curated cabins with throw pillows, quilts, and handcrafted furniture.

When sunlight finally slips through the gaps in the curtains, I give up pretending I'm going to get more rest. I ease into my jeans, careful with my ankle, and leave the oversized T-shirt on. It's softer and cleaner than my blouse.

I repack my things, loop the purse across my body so I can still use the crutch, and smooth the bed behind me. It’s ridiculous, but I can't help it. I may be stranded in a stranger's cabin, but that doesn't mean I have to be a messy guest.

The cabin is too quiet, so I wait until a floorboard creaks somewhere down the hall, then I'm up and out of the room, heading for the stairs.

The crutch digs into my ribs as I make my slow descent from the room, each hop on the stairs harder than the last. Sweat beads along my spine by the time I'm halfway down, and that's when Nixon appears. He strides up to meet me, swooping me into his arms again before I can object.

“Seriously?” I huff. “You've got to stop doing that.”

He doesn't answer, strides into the kitchen and deposits me gently onto a stool at the counter.

“I could've made it,” I mutter, dragging the crutch closer.

“You were moving slower than a snail,” he says over his shoulder, already opening cupboards. “You know, you have a problem letting anyone help you.”

“Nothing wrong with being independent,” I snap.

He stops and turns enough to raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure the way I found you last night proves that theory wrong.”

The air leaves my lungs like a punch.

Is he… blaming me? For walking? For needing dinner and trying to get back to my motel on my own two feet at a perfectly reasonable hour?

That's not being independent. That's just being a human being who needs to eat and sleep.

It's not my fault that a sexual predator was lurking around.

Why do people always blame the victim instead of focusing on the perpetrator?

“Wow,” I say, blinking at him. “I don't even know where to go with that caveman logic.”

“Caveman?” He's amused now, leaning into the insult like it fits.

“Yeah, you know. The whole 'women should never leave the house without a male chaperone' attitude, instead of the more logical 'men should stop assaulting women'.”

He shrugs, opening the fridge and pulling out a carton of milk and some orange juice. “Some men are assholes.”

“That doesn't make it okay.”

“No,” he agrees, setting the cartons on the counter. “But some of us know how to make breakfast.”

It's infuriating how quickly the scent of that brewing pot softens the edge of my irritation.

I'm still bristling, still wound too tight, but I can't help it. My stomach growls, loud and unapologetic.

With his back to me, Nixon is all hard lines and powerful muscles. Broad shoulders stretch his flannel shirt, and his jeans hug his hips and thighs like a second skin. I hate how attractive he is, especially when he's being a condescending jack ass.

“So, what can I get you?” he asks over his shoulder, catching me staring. “We usually start the day with something meaty.”

The memory of the giant wolf-dog from last night flashes in my mind. All muscle and fur and sharp, tearing teeth.

“I'll take toast,” I say quickly. “Plain is fine.”

He glances at me, one brow lifting.

“Toast,” I repeat. “Safe. Familiar. Not likely to have once walked on four legs.”

Nixon scoffs. “Actually, leave it to me. You don't seem capable of making a sensible decision about anything.”

My jaw tics. Of course, he's ignoring me again, like my words are blood whistling through his ear. Maybe it's my 'weak girly voice' that fails to pierce his thick lumberjack skull.

“Toast,” I say through clenched teeth, “is what I want.”

He barely glances my way. “Wait until you've tried this bacon,” he says, pulling a massive pack of streaky meat from the fridge like it's the Holy Grail. He grabs a skillet, sets it on the stove, and unwraps the plastic.

“But I said I want toast.”

The back door creaks open. Finn strolls in, shirtless, his hair a tousled mess and his eyes still fogged from sleep. He looks like he's rolled out of bed and directly into a Calvin Klein ad.

“Well,” he drawls, grinning. “This is a better view than I usually wake up to.”

His voice is pure sunshine and mischief, and it only makes Nixon look more storm-cloud grumpy in comparison.

“Do you think you can explain to this stubborn man that I want toast? Not bacon. Not sausage. Not anything else he thinks I might want. Just two pieces of bread, charred and buttered.”

Finn chuckles and shoots Nixon a look I can't quite decipher. I suddenly feel foolish, like a guest who's overstayed her welcome and is now complaining about the color of the curtains.

“I'm not ungrateful,” I add, softer this time. “I… I don't like being bulldozed.”

Finn raises his hands, trying to smooth the tension. “How about coffee? That usually makes things better.”

“Coffee would be amazing,” I say with a sigh. “And then, a ride back into town.”

Another look passes between the brothers, subtle but loaded. I catch it, even if I don't fully understand it. I decide not to push. One emotional outburst per breakfast is enough.

“So, what do you do?” Finn asks, filling a mug and handing it to me with a smile that's almost too genuine to be real.

“I make furniture,” I say, taking a grateful sip. It's strong and hot, with the right bitterness. “I'm in town to source some premium wood for a client commission.”

At that, Finn's brows rise, and he gives Nixon another quick glance.

“Well, if Braysville is good for anything, it's lumber,” Finn says.

“And if Finn's good for anything,” Nixon chimes in without looking up, “it's furniture.”

“You make furniture, too?”

“Pretty much everything in this house has been crafted by my brother,” Nixon says, sliding two slices of bread into the toaster at last. “The coffee table, the kitchen stools, the bed…”

“Really? You made the coffee table... and the bed that I slept in?”

He runs a hand through his hair, cheeks going adorably pink. “Yeah. It's kind of a hobby.”

A hobby? That bed was a work of art.

“You're seriously talented,” I say, leaning in despite myself. “Do you sell your work?”

“He does it for fun,” Nixon says before Finn can answer. “We're too busy running our lumber business to start taking custom orders.”

“You have a lumber business?” I ask, stunned. “Why didn't you say something?”

Nixon lifts an eyebrow. “You didn't exactly give me space to get a word in last night.”

Fair. But also? Rude.

I ignore him and focus on Finn, who clearly wants to say more.

“You should think about selling your stuff.

I know a few clients who'd jump at the chance to own pieces like yours. And I could help with marketing, exposure, and selling online. I take a percentage, of course, but the profit would be all yours.”

Finn's eyes meet mine, and they're practically sparkling. “You'd do that?”

“Absolutely. Quality work deserves to be seen.”

I think back over all the people who've bought my furniture. It's what makes a home. It's what allows us to enjoy our surroundings. Quality pieces can provide a lifetime of service and enjoyment.

“Finn has a lot on his plate,” Nixon cuts in, voice flat and firm. His palms rest on the edge of the counter like he's bracing himself for a storm.

I force myself to stay calm and not rise to the bait. The goal is to leave here with my dignity intact, and hopefully, Finn's contact info in my bag.

He might actually be interested in selling through me. I could help him build exposure, manage distribution, even take a percentage of each sale. My existing clients would love Finn's work; custom pieces with soul and history. I could open up new markets for both of us.

But maybe I'm going about this all wrong. Maybe instead of snapping at Nixon every time he opens his mouth, I should butter him up. My mother always warned me about my fierce approach. Said charm works better than fire, especially with men who think they're the apex of the food chain.

Maybe this detour wasn't such a disaster after all.

Maybe being here is… fortuitous. I could walk away from Braysville with a new supplier, a new collaborator, and enough premium lumber to fulfill every order in my pipeline.

Finn wouldn't get half the prices I could get him.

I'd pay him fairly and still make a solid profit. Everyone wins.

Finn returns with cream and sugar, and as I finish my coffee, I practically melt into my seat.

“Mmmm…” I sigh. “That's… God, that's good. Where do you get your beans?”

Finn rolls his eyes. “Please don't get him started. Nixon's a total coffee nerd. If you so much as whisper praise, he'll give you the full TED talk on bean origins, roast profiles, and elevation.”

“Thank you, dear brother, for your high praise,” Nixon mutters, grabbing a plate. He sounds annoyed, but I catch the flicker of pride in his eyes. It's subtle, but it's there.

He slides a plate across the counter. “Here's your toast, Scarlet. And if you'd like to try some bacon, help yourself.”

I take a slice of toast and butter it slowly, sensing Nixon's gaze watching the bacon I insisted I didn't want. As much as I hate admitting defeat, I also know when it's smart to pick my battles. So I grab two pieces of the crispy, perfectly cooked strips and place them on my plate without comment.

He doesn't gloat but continues sipping his coffee like he didn't win that small, quiet war. I can respect that. Maybe he's a little less of a control freak than I thought.

“So… where's Reed?” I ask, biting into the toast.

“He had to handle some business,” Nixon replies. “He'll be back later.”

“Can you tell me more about the kinds of wood you supply?”

Nixon obliges, rattling off a list of lumber types and finishes. His knowledge is impressive—he knows his inventory inside out—and from the way he talks, their operation is larger than I expected. Not just a cabin-in-the-woods setup. A real business with real potential.

“This sounds like exactly what I've been looking for,” I say. “Would you be able to show me some samples?”

Nixon’s eyes flick to my hand as I help myself to a third strip of bacon. “We'll take you to the yard after breakfast,” he says. “But only if you promise to stay off that ankle afterward.”

“I can agree to that,” I say, flexing my foot gently before wincing at the sharp stab of pain. “My room at the motel isn't exactly the Ritz, but it has a bed and a TV. I'll take it easy.”

Nixon frowns. “That motel is a dump. No elevator, no room service. How are you supposed to rest when you'll have to hobble up and down stairs to feed yourself?”

I blink, taken aback. “I'll figure it out.”

“I won't have it,” he says firmly. His voice has a tone that leaves no room for negotiation. “You'll stay here. We'll make sure you've got what you need. You'll actually rest.”

My pulse spikes. “I couldn't—”

“You can. And you will.” He sets his cup onto the table, locking eyes with me. There's a flicker of challenge in them, and something else. Possessiveness, maybe? Or the unshakable confidence of a man used to being obeyed.

If I weren't still trying to sweeten him for the sake of a potential business deal, I'd be launching a full-scale protest.

“You can call the motel, cancel your room,” Nixon continues. “We'll swing by and pick up your stuff. You'll have everything you need right here.”

“I need to call my mom,” I counter. “She'll worry if I go dark. She knows I'm traveling.”

Nixon's hand pauses ever so slightly as he lifts his cup again. “Finn can go. No point in dragging your ankle all over town. I'll show you the yard. We'll kill two birds with one stone.”

The glance Finn shoots him is cautious.

The family dynamic is taking shape. Nixon's clearly the alpha, the one who calls the shots. Finn, I'd bet, is the peacekeeper. The bridge. Reed's probably the wild card—funny, unpredictable, and chaotic enough to keep things interesting.

What do I do now?

I could push back. Demand to go into town myself. Insist on using my phone. Start swinging this crutch like a battle-axe. But that won't get me anywhere, especially with Nixon.

So I do what I rarely do: I pause. I play the long game.

Mom won't be worried yet. She knows I'm off the grid for the day. And maybe, I can use Nixon's overprotective streak to my advantage. If I keep my cool, sweeten the tone, and play the part of the charming guest, I might not only get access to the lumber but get Finn on board, too.

I meet Nixon's gaze across the counter. His eyes are steely.

This man is going to be the most difficult deal of my life.

But he has no idea who he's up against.

He might win this round… but he's not ready for the full Scarlet.

Not even close.