Page 20 of Taken By The Wolves

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?

9

REED

There’s something deeply satisfying about feeding people. Watching shoulders loosen. Listening to plates clatter and drinks pour, and that one sound everyone makes when they take a bite of something that tastes better than they expected.

Tonight, that sound comes from Scarlet.

She makes it around the third bite of the venison stew I slow-cooked all afternoon. Finn baked the bread, I handled the meat, and Nixon? Well, he stood brooding like a thundercloud with his arms folded.

Scarlet’s curled up on the couch now, one foot up, ankle wrapped and iced, cheeks pink from the firelight and the glass of wine she’s halfway through swirling like a woman who knows her vintages, even though I’m ninety percent sure she selected it from the rack because of wolves on the label.

She’s on her second glass now. Which means she’s a little too relaxed to remember she popped painkillers afterdinner.

Just enough to make her edges smudge.

I like her like this when the walls she keeps so neatly stacked show cracks. And what’s behind them?

Interesting as hell.

“So,” I say, refilling her glass with a grin that Nixon will growl at me for later, “Scarlet. Tell us something spicy.”