Page 11 of Taken By The Wolves
Which is a shame because the bed is easily the most comfortable I've ever been in. I sink into the mattress like a fairy tale princess. There's even a hand-crocheted blanket folded at the foot of the bed, something that makes me smile at first, until the thought hits.
None of the men in this house looks like the type to make something soft and delicate. It's the kind of blanket a grandma would make.
Nixon, Reed, and Finn look like the kind who sleep under the stars, who fight, who live rough and thrive in it. Men made to survive. Soldiers, not homemakers. Wilderness types at home with wolves in the wilderness, notin curated cabins with throw pillows, quilts, and handcrafted furniture.
When sunlight finally slips through the gaps in the curtains, I give up pretending I'm going to get more rest. I ease into my jeans, careful with my ankle, and leave the oversized T-shirt on. It's softer and cleaner than my blouse.
I repack my things, loop the purse across my body so I can still use the crutch, and smooth the bed behind me. It’s ridiculous, but I can't help it. I may be stranded in a stranger's cabin, but that doesn't mean I have to be a messy guest.
The cabin is too quiet, so I wait until a floorboard creaks somewhere down the hall, then I'm up and out of the room, heading for the stairs.
The crutch digs into my ribs as I make my slow descent from the room, each hop on the stairs harder than the last. Sweat beads along my spine by the time I'm halfway down, and that's when Nixon appears. He strides up to meet me, swooping me into his arms again before I can object.
“Seriously?” I huff. “You've got to stop doing that.”
He doesn't answer, strides into the kitchen and deposits me gently onto a stool at the counter.
“I could've made it,” I mutter, dragging the crutch closer.
“You were moving slower than a snail,” he says over his shoulder, already opening cupboards. “You know, you have a problem letting anyone help you.”
“Nothing wrong with being independent,” I snap.
He stops and turns enough to raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure the way I found you last night proves that theory wrong.”
The air leaves my lungs like a punch.
Is he… blaming me? For walking? For needing dinner and trying to get back to my motel on my own two feet at a perfectly reasonable hour? That's not being independent. That's just being a human being who needs to eat and sleep. It's not my fault that a sexual predator was lurking around. Why do people always blame the victim instead of focusing on the perpetrator?
“Wow,” I say, blinking at him. “I don't even know where to go with that caveman logic.”
“Caveman?” He's amused now, leaning into the insult like it fits.
“Yeah, you know. The whole 'women should never leave the house without a male chaperone' attitude, instead of the more logical 'men should stop assaulting women'.”
He shrugs, opening the fridge and pulling out a carton of milk and some orange juice. “Some men are assholes.”
“That doesn't make it okay.”
“No,” he agrees, setting the cartons on the counter. “But some of us know how to make breakfast.”
It's infuriating how quickly the scent of that brewing pot softens the edge of my irritation.
I'm still bristling, still wound too tight, but I can't help it. My stomach growls, loud and unapologetic.
With his back to me, Nixon is all hard lines and powerful muscles. Broad shoulders stretch his flannel shirt, and his jeans hug his hips and thighs like a second skin. I hate how attractive he is, especially when he's being a condescending jack ass.
“So, what can I get you?” he asks over his shoulder, catching me staring. “We usually start the day with something meaty.”
The memory of the giant wolf-dog from last nightflashes in my mind. All muscle and fur and sharp, tearing teeth.
“I'll take toast,” I say quickly. “Plain is fine.”
He glances at me, one brow lifting.
“Toast,” I repeat. “Safe. Familiar. Not likely to have once walked on four legs.”
Nixon scoffs. “Actually, leave it to me. You don't seem capable of making a sensible decision about anything.”
