Page 15 of Taken By The Wolves

“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, sawdustdusting 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.

7

NIXON

Scarlet touches a walnut slab like it’s capable of appreciating her gentle reverence. Her fingers trace the grain the way I’ve only ever seen Finn do, as if the wood is speaking to her and she’s listening carefully for its secrets.

I lean against the beam out of reach, arms crossed, watching her. She doesn’t notice. She’s too lost in her work. I didn’t expect to like that about her.

“You’re good with your hands,” I say before I can stop myself.

She glances at me over her shoulder, brows raised. “You wouldn’t believe how often people assume I pick out colors and shapes and call myself a furniture designer.”

I can believe it. A woman like her, who’s fine-boned and feminine, but wrapped in lean muscle and strong opinion, must confuse people. They want to put her in a box, but she doesn’t fit. I rub my beard, considering her.