Page 18 of Taken By The Wolves
We shake, although it’s alien to touch a man who should be my enemy, like our bodies were forged to repel each other, and our tentative truce is going against our natures.
“How is your family?” I ask, and before my eyes, his serious expression is transformed by wonder.
“I waited a long time for this happiness,” he says. “Cubs and a mate have brought life and laughter to our dusty old house.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Blessings to you all.”
“And blessings to you. May your mate be fruitful.”
Scarlet.
She’s not claimed. She’s not mine yet, but the thought of breeding her makes my wolf howl and my body flare.
“Thank you.”
Hunter heads back toward the trees. His boots crunch over the gravel, then fade into silence as he disappears. In a few seconds, his bear scent intensifies. He’s shifted and will now be bounding through the forest towards home.
And me? I’m already turning toward Scarlet again, knowing the only way to sate my wolf is to be in her orbit.
8
SCARLET
By late afternoon, I’m tired in a way I didn’t expect. Not just physically, though my ankle still aches like hell, but mentally. Emotionally.
Spending time with these men is like standing in the center of a hurricane. There’s tension in the air and a pull between us that I don’t understand.
And yet, nothing bad has happened.
Unless you count Nixon carrying me around, whether I want him to or not. Or Finn smothering me with over-caring attentiveness. Or Reed making me laugh and threatening to take his clothes off again.
In fact, I’ve laughed more today than I have in weeks.
By the time I’m sitting in the soft chair in their living room, a mug of coffee in hand, I realize something strange.
I feel safe.
That should probably scare me more than it does.
“I should get my stuff from the motel,” I say, mostly to the room.
Nixon’s eyes flick to mine from where he’s leaning against the doorframe. “I’ll take you.” I guess he changed his mind about Finn going alone.
“I can walk,” I say automatically, even though I have no idea where I am or which way to walk. My independent streak is hard to bury when I’ve spent my whole life being told never to rely on anyone.
He raises a brow. “You hobbled across my lumberyard like a baby deer. You’re not walking anywhere.”
There’s no bite in his voice this time. No smugness. Only… fact. He’s watching me too closely again, like he’s waiting for me to object. I don’t.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
He blinks with surprise, then reaches out for the keys that rest on another beautifully crafted piece of furniture.
The drive into town is peaceful. The sun’s slipping low in the sky, gilding the tops of the pines in yellow and orange. I roll the window open a crack and let the fresh air cool my face.
Nixon drives like he does everything else, with quiet intensity. He grips the wheel tightly, and he handles the truck like it’s an extension of his body with strong, scarred hands that look like they were made to shape the world.
I pull out my phone, shocked to find service bars again, and type a quick message to my mom.
