Page 9 of Taken By The Wolves (Blackwood Forest #2)

SCARLET

By late afternoon, I’m tired in a way I didn’t expect. Not just physically, though my ankle still aches like hell, but mentally. Emotionally.

Spending time with these men is like standing in the center of a hurricane. There’s tension in the air and a pull between us that I don’t understand.

And yet, nothing bad has happened.

Unless you count Nixon carrying me around, whether I want him to or not. Or Finn smothering me with over-caring attentiveness. Or Reed making me laugh and threatening to take his clothes off again.

In fact, I’ve laughed more today than I have in weeks.

By the time I’m sitting in the soft chair in their living room, a mug of coffee in hand, I realize something strange.

I feel safe.

That should probably scare me more than it does.

“I should get my stuff from the motel,” I say, mostly to the room.

Nixon’s eyes flick to mine from where he’s leaning against the doorframe. “I’ll take you.” I guess he changed his mind about Finn going alone.

“I can walk,” I say automatically, even though I have no idea where I am or which way to walk. My independent streak is hard to bury when I’ve spent my whole life being told never to rely on anyone.

He raises a brow. “You hobbled across my lumberyard like a baby deer. You’re not walking anywhere.”

There’s no bite in his voice this time. No smugness. Only… fact. He’s watching me too closely again, like he’s waiting for me to object. I don’t.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

He blinks with surprise, then reaches out for the keys that rest on another beautifully crafted piece of furniture.

The drive into town is peaceful. The sun’s slipping low in the sky, gilding the tops of the pines in yellow and orange. I roll the window open a crack and let the fresh air cool my face.

Nixon drives like he does everything else, with quiet intensity. He grips the wheel tightly, and he handles the truck like it’s an extension of his body with strong, scarred hands that look like they were made to shape the world.

I pull out my phone, shocked to find service bars again, and type a quick message to my mom.

All okay. Working with a lumber yard. Doing business. Don’t worry. Will call soon.

There. She won’t freak out and report me missing. Not yet, anyway.

The motel is as depressing as I remember, with cracked paint, a faded sign, and the scent of stale air clinging to the breeze outside.

“I’ve got it from here,” I say when Nixon pulls into a spot near my room.

“No, you don’t,” he says, already out of the truck.

Before I can argue, he’s circling around to my side, opening the door, and offering a hand. I hesitate for a beat, then take it. His palm is warm and callused, steadying me as I ease onto my good foot.

We move slowly across the lot, Nixon hovering close but not crowding. When we reach my door, I unlock it and push it open.

“Let me make sure it’s clear,” he says.

I raise a brow. “You worried my underwear’s going to attack me?”

He gives me a look and disappears inside before I can respond.

By the time I step in, leaning heavily on my crutch, he’s already scanned the room like an elite bodyguard. Satisfied, he steps aside to let me pass.

I sit on the edge of the bed, gathering my things and mentally checking off what I brought with me for this trip: toiletries, sketchbook, phone charger.

“You rest,” Nixon says, already moving toward the corner where my bag lies half-open. “I’ve got it.”

I watch him kneel, this enormous, muscle-thick man, who methodically packs my things. He folds my T-shirt like valuable silk Kimonos, sets my hairbrush in a side pocket, then—

His hand pauses.

Panties. A lacy black pair.

He holds them for a second too long, frozen in place.

Our eyes meet.

My face flushes instantly. “I—I can get that—”

But he doesn’t look away or make a joke. He sets them carefully in the bag, zips it shut, and stands.

My mouth is dry.

“There,” he says, voice low and raspy. “All set.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

The air between us is thicker now. More charged like something has shifted, and we’re both dancing around, pretending it hasn’t.

When he takes my bag and holds the door open, I hobble out without another word.

As we pull out of the parking lot, a woman steps into the crosswalk ahead of us, guiding a wide stroller with two toddlers kicking and chattering in tandem. They’re dressed in little fleece hoodies, one red and one yellow, and are deep in some toddler babble argument over a sippy cup.

The woman pushes the stroller with practiced ease, golden hair braided over one shoulder, a tote bag slung across her back.

She moves like someone used to multitasking, taking motherhood in her stride.

Beside her, a man walks close. Too close to be a friend or a helpful neighbor.

He’s tall and broad, with shoulders like a linebacker and a beard that gives me déjà vu.

There’s something in the way he watches the road, the stroller, the world with an alertness that reminds me of Nixon.

I turn to him and find him lifting his hand and giving the man a brief nod.

The man returns it, but it doesn’t seem open or friendly; instead, it appears a little wary.

The woman smiles at us as we pass, her wide mouth holding none of the man’s guardedness. But behind that smile is curiosity. Her gaze catches mine like a hook. She doesn’t look away.

It’s like she’s assessing me. Like I’ve walked into her story uninvited, and she’s trying to decide what role I’ll play.

The truck clears the street, and I glance back once, watching as the twins wriggle and the woman crouches to fix a shoe that’s half off one little foot. The man stands behind her like a sentry, solid and watchful.

And for one irrational second, something sharp twists beneath my breastbone.

The hollow ache of what I lost before it was ever had.

I swallow and look away.

“They’re cute,” I murmur, voice flat. “The kids.”

Nixon doesn’t respond.

“Who are they?” I ask a little louder. “Friends of yours?”

“Neighbors.”

“Friendly ones?”

His jaw tightens. “Complicated.”

Which, in Nixon-speak, says everything.

I turn back toward the window, pretending I’m watching the trees blur past.

But in my head is a different voice entirely. My doctor’s soft, clinical, apologetic tone.

Low ovarian reserve… less than ten percent… pregnancy is unlikely without intervention.

I was twenty-six at the time.

Since then, every man I’ve told has looked away, or smiled and said it didn’t matter, then slowly pulled away when they realized I wasn’t going to be their fresh start. Their breeder. Their dream of a happy family.

Even the good ones couldn’t help it. Biology shouts louder than love.

I grip the seatbelt tighter.

This isn’t what I came here for. I didn’t walk into these woods looking for a future. I came for lumber. For business. For a break from the grind of everyday life.

So why does that woman’s curious glance stay with me longer than it should?