Page 75 of Taken By The Wolves

“Mmmm.” I step toward them and lick a bead of sweat from Nixon’s neck. “Salty.”

The scent of them—hot, sweaty and masculine—drives me insane. All I can think about is clawing at them, licking them, biting them, tasting them, taking their bodies deep inside mine in whatever way I can.

Nixon’s hands snap to my waist as I press my body to his. His fingers are fast, unbuttoning my shirt and pushing it to the floor. My skirt follows, and three sets of eyes devour every inch of me.

Mine, three voices rumble in my head.

“Yes,” I say out loud. “I’m yours and you’re mine.”

Then they’re on me.

Nixon is behind me, kissing the back of my neck. Reed’s mouth is on my breasts, his hands everywhere as I run my fingers through his damp hair. Finn kneels, pressing his mouth between my thighs, tongue ruthless, fingers pressed deep into the flesh of my hips.

I arch, cry out, twist, and pant, as their hungry whispers take over my mind.

Look at her. So ripe. So needy. So pretty. Her pussy is sweet on my tongue. Her body jerks when you do that. Touch her there. Fill her.

It’s a bond so deep it blurs the line between our bodies and minds.

I’ve never been so full.

So wrecked.

Soalive.

And in the afterglow, pressed between them, still trembling, I whisper, “Whatever’s coming... we face it together.”

Nixon kisses my temple.

Reed strokes my spine.

Finn touches my slick thighs lazily, eyes half-lidded. “Let them come.”

37

NIXON

Scarlet sleeps wrapped in the arms of my brothers, all of them tangled together, spent, and I know I should stay. I want to stay, but something gnaws at the back of my skull, restless and unfinished. I leave them in bed, careful not to wake them, and pull on a pair of shorts before slipping barefoot through the hallway.

Every board underfoot creaks in the same places it always did. The floor still leans slightly left past the staircase. That old air vent still whistles in cold weather. The familiarity should comfort me.

It doesn’t.

There are no pictures of us on the walls. No childhood photos. Not even the worn candidness of the four of us standing muddy and grinning after Reed dared us to jump in the lake mid-winter.

It’s like we never existed.

Or worse, like wediedwith Matt, and the memory of our laughter was too much to bear.

In their place, Father has hung elaborate marquetry, each one carved and burned into polished wood panels, depicting places deep in the territory: the ridge trail where we used to run at dawn, the old grove that smells like thunderstorms, the firepit clearing where Matt once swore he’d challenge Dad for alpha to move dinner time earlier.

He was all teeth and swagger, smile and backslaps.

The thought of him slams into my chest like a fist.

I open the front door, stepping out onto the wide porch. The night air is crisp, thick with pine and old secrets. I walk to the railing and lean against the porch post, arms folded, barefoot and bare-chested as I inhale the scent of home. Or rather, this home that no longer feels like ours.

Blackwood Forest belongs to us now. But this place?