Page 28 of Taken By The Wolves

“Yeah. From ash. Good for detail. Strong.”

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, and I mean it. Not just the table but the whole space that exudes the same calm energy as Finn.

“You should sell them,” I say. “I could list them on my website. I know people who would love these.”

He hesitates. “I don’t think—”

“Let me try a few pieces. You can decide the prices. I won’t take a cut until I prove there’s demand.”

He looks at me for a long moment, then gives a reluctant nod. “It’s not about the money, Scarlet, but okay.”

His pause tightens my belly. We’re standing too close. There’s something carved into the lines of his face, and his dark eyes hold mine, staring like he sees into places I usually keep locked. His forearms flex with quiet strength, veins and tendons shifting beneath sun-kissed skin, and his hands… God, those hands. Rough from his works, but elegance in motion. Beautiful, not because of what they look like but for what they can craft. I wonder what they’d feel like on my waist and in my hair, maybe between my thighs. His hand brushes mine, and the air tightens between us. His gaze drops to my mouth, and my heart trips in my chest.

For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.

Iwanthim to kiss me.

Would it burn with the same heat as Nixon’s, or would it be softer and quieter, like Finn?

He steps back instead, clears his throat, and turns away, and the loss of his attention is so sharp it surprises me.

“How about this?” he says, waving toward a small table. “And this?” The chair is intricately carved and mirror-polished.

“Definitely. What about this?”

I trail my fingers over a shelving unit with flared legs that seem to emerge from the ground like they’re anchored to roots.

“Okay.”

“I can do it now, if you price them.”

He pulls out a worn, yellowed notebook that curls at the edges. His pen, in contrast, is a beautiful, gold-tipped fountain pen, and his writing is an elegant cursive that fills me with envy for its neatness.

I lean my crutch against the wall and shuffle into position to photograph the items. I can crop them and adjust the backgrounds to better match my website theme. In a matter of minutes, I have the images completed. Finn passes me his costs and the price he’d like to charge for each piece, which are way below what I’d have suggested. Taking the pen from his hand, I write the prices I’m going to list next to his.

“Seriously?”

“Trust me,” I say. “Rich people don’t value anything cheap.”

He shakes his head. “You have people who pay that much.”

“For craftsmanship like this? Of course. These are unique pieces with an origin story. Can I take a picture ofyou to feature? People love to see the creator responsible.”

He seems reluctant, but I hold up my phone.

“I’m not smiling,” he says, through gritted teeth.

“Even better. Nothing appeals more than a handsome, tortured artist.”

“Three descriptors that have never been applied to me.”

I stare at him through the screen, wondering how that could be true. His features are artful and beautiful in a way that hurts to look at for too long. There’s a wildness to him that makes me want to discover more.

“What about a bio?”

“Whatever you think?” He shakes his head. “Nixon won’t like this.”

“Why?”