Page 7 of Taken By The Wolves (Blackwood Forest #2)

SCARLET

The journey to the lumber yard is shorter than I expected. So short that if my ankle weren’t swollen and pulsing like a second heartbeat, we could have walked. But Nixon, apparently done with watching me hobble around, scooped me up without ceremony and carried me to the truck.

Now, we’re rumbling along a narrow dirt track that winds through the thick of the forest. Trees crowd close like silent sentinels.

The cabin disappears behind us, and the canopy opens into a clearing alive with industry.

Stacks of logs are piled into high towers, and heavy-duty machinery sits at attention, accompanied by the smell of fresh wood shavings.

A large metal shed anchors the place, all corrugated steel and shadowed mystery. It’s clear this is a small operation, but it’s clean, organized, and humming with purpose. If the furniture in the cabin is any indication, these men really know their wood.

When Nixon kills the engine and opens the truck door, the sharp snarl of a mechanical saw grows louder. I glance around, uncertain where the sound is coming from. Do they employ a team, or is this a three-man show?

He moves to pick me up again, but I plant my hand on his chest before he can. “Seriously, Nixon. I want to walk. Please.”

His jaw tenses, but then he grunts and steps back, his shrug betraying a quiet war inside him. He doesn’t like being told no, but he’ll accept it if I ask nicely. I file that away for later.

I follow him into the shed, where I find Reed, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, complete with a yellow hard hat and protective goggles. He’s sliding wood through an automated saw, slicing it into narrower planks with practiced ease.

He notices us as we approach, finishes the cut, and hits the switch. The machine winds down, the ear-splitting screech of the saw giving way to a softer whir, then silence.

Reed lifts his goggles and grins. “Well, well. You're giving Scarlet the grand tour now? I thought she was supposed to be off that ankle.”

“She wants to look at lumber,” Nixon replies, clipped and businesslike.

Reed spreads his arms, motioning to the endless racks of timber. “We’ve got plenty of wood. Softwood, hardwood…” His smirk is shameless, his tone full of innuendo.

I arch a brow. “You rehearsed that line?”

He winks. “Only every day of my life.”

“Ignore my brother,” Nixon mutters, steering me toward a long row of neatly labeled boards. “Everything’s categorized by species and cut. Take your time. Let me know if you have questions”.

I run my hand over a slab of honey-colored maple, the grain smooth and cool beneath my fingers. The scent of sawdust fills the air—clean, sharp, grounding. I breathe it in like a tonic. Without realizing it, I sigh.

“You like the way it feels,” Nixon says behind me.

I turn, caught in my reverie. His eyes are dark again, but there’s a heat behind them this time. Something just shy of hungry.

“I like the story wood tells,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “Every knot, every scar, every grain pattern… It’s a memory.”

Nixon steps closer. “You’re the kind of woman who appreciates what most people miss.”

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “And you’re the kind of man who notices.”

There’s a beat of silence between us, thick with the tension that’s been growing since last night. Then Reed’s voice breaks it.

“Careful, brother,” he calls from the far side of the stack. “Scarlet’s going to have you writing poetry soon.”

I laugh, grateful for the reprieve. “Now, that would be terrifying.”

Reed steps into view, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his T-shirt, exposing a chiseled torso and a confidence that borders on indecent.

He doesn’t miss the way my eyes flick toward him and drink him in or hide his satisfaction.

Instead, his smirk turns wicked. “You’re not terrifying. You’re a damn revelation.”

He’s shameless, but it works. His grin is disarming, and the way he looks at me like I’m something rare makes my stomach tighten in a way I’d nearly forgotten was possible.

Finn appears next, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sawdust dusting his forearms and clinging to the waves of his hair. That same quiet warmth settles on his face. He gives me a casual once-over.

“Find anything you like?” he asks.

The question is innocent, but Nixon tenses beside me.

“I found a lot I like,” I say, letting the double meaning linger in the air, tired of pretending I don’t feel the pulse of wildness threading through this place.

Reed tilts his head. “You gonna stick around longer than a day?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “If the product’s right. And the company.”

Finn’s gaze flickers to Nixon, who, judging by the set of his jaw, isn’t used to this kind of flirtation.

Reed gives a low whistle. “Well, damn. If you’re angling for the deluxe tour, I could take you out back. Show you the log lift. Hell, the mill’s got rhythm like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I bet it does.”

“Reed,” Nixon warns, voice low and blunt-edged.

But Reed grins and walks off, whistling.

Finn clears his throat, shooting me a glance that’s half apology, half intrigue. “We’ve got some cherry wood in the back. You want to take a look?”

“I do.”

As he leads me deeper into the yard, Nixon hangs back. Watching. Assessing.

And for the first time, I don’t mind.