Page 6 of Taken By The Wolves

“I don’t want to go into your cabin,” I hiss, my voice trembling. “Do you understand me? Take me back.”

He keeps walking with determination, like a man so used to getting his way, he doesn’t even register protest as resistance.

By the time we reach the porch, I’ve kicked and twisted enough to throw my balance, and when he finally sets me onto my feet, I stupidly try to stand. Pain explodes through my ankle, and I crumble with a sharp cry.

He catches me instantly, his hand closing around my elbow. It’s hard to tell if it’s support or restraint. Maybe both.

He’s quick to unlock the door to the cabin, and when he throws it open and guides me through it, I forget my name.

Because inside… It’s breathtaking.

The walls are paneled with slow-grown wood, rich and warm, polished smoothly. The furniture is handcrafted perfection with clean, classic lines that suggest obsession with symmetry and pride in detail. It’s not rustic kitsch. It’s art. Living, breathing, masculine art.

My mouth parts in a silent gasp of awe.

This isn’t a cabin. It’s a cathedral to craftsmanship.

My clients in Aspen would sell their souls to replicate this.

Nixon guides me into the center of the open-plan room and closes the door behind us. The sound of the latch clicks.

And just like that… I realize I’m trapped.

Not by a man with cruel eyes and yellow teeth...

But who is Nixon, and what does he want with me?

3

SCARLET

“Come and sit over here,” Nixon says, guiding me gently by the arm toward the deep navy corduroy couch. I hop awkwardly on one foot until I reach it, then sink into the cushions with a relieved sigh.

I clutch my purse to my chest, acutely aware of the phone tucked inside. Knowing it’s there provides a thread of control in a situation that’s slipping through my fingers.

Nixon lowers himself onto the polished wood coffee table directly in front of me. His thighs spread slightly for balance, his body solid and broad, and before I can object, he lifts my injured foot into his lap and slowly peels away the sock.

“Don’t,” I say. “I can do it.” I try to jerk it back, but he continues.

“Why don’t you want me to help?” he asks. “You’re so guarded.”

“You’re a stranger,” I snap. “A stranger who carried me into his cabin in the woods. Forgive me if I’m not swooningwith gratitude while you try to undress me.”

He shakes his head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Undress you? It’s a sock. A dirty, leaf-covered, damp sock. You think this is my idea of foreplay?”

I flush with embarrassment.

It isn’t. Of course, it isn’t.

But when his fingers slide beneath the fabric and ease it over my swollen ankle, it’s not just pain that floods my nerves, but awareness. His touch is warm and sure, rough in the way that comes from working with his hands, but gentle, too. His focus doesn’t waver, not even for a second.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

The sock peels away slowly, dragging leaves and forest debris with it. When he exposes my foot, he pauses.

“It’s very swollen,” he says quietly, setting the sock aside.

I glance down and wince. He’s right. The bones of my ankle have all but vanished beneath red, puffy skin. It looks angry and injured.