Page 4 of Taken By The Wolves
I crawl to the side, heaving with panic. My phone is useless. No signal. My boot is off, my ankle is swelling, and the pain is biting deeper.
I try to breathe. Try to think.
The branch nearby is long and sturdy enough. I drag myself upright, testing weight on one leg. It’s bad. But I can make it. I have to make it.
Then a shadow moves between the arching trunks.
My heart stops.
A man emerges from between the trees. His hair is dark as the night, his eyes sparkle like blue diamonds even in thelow light of the forest. His beard frames a mouth too soft for this wild world. His shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt, and his arms look carved from stone.
I freeze. My heart thunders.
“Hey,” he says, raising his hands. The moment our eyes lock, light erupts between us, like a flash of lightning or a falling star. I blink, dazed, and he stares back, just as stunned. Something passes between us. Some recognition I don’t understand.
We’re still as tree trunks, whipped by the wind that rustles the leaves, an eerie soundtrack to our encounter.
“I was attacked,” I finally choke out. “He… he was chased off by wolves.”
The man’s eyes narrow, his gaze sharpening. “You’re safe now.”
I want to believe him. God help me, I want to believe he’s a hero because the alternative is too terrible to contemplate.
2
SCARLET
“Do you need help?” He makes his way closer, his eyes roaming my leg and foot to where I’ve been keeping my weight off my swollen ankle.
“I twisted it,” I say. “It hurts to walk.”
“Here…let me…” He reaches for the makeshift walking stick I’d been leaning on, his hand brushing mine for the briefest moment. I expect him to drape my arm over his shoulder or offer a slow, awkward hobble back toward safety. But he does none of that. Instead, with a swift movement and effortless confidence, he lifts me into his arms like I weigh less than air.
I gasp as I cling to him instinctively, worrying he might drop me. My face flushes hot, blazing like a sunset. His arms are like sculpted stone wrapped in heat, and his chest is a wall of muscle that smells like pine needles crushed beneath boots, like cedar smoke curling in the wind, like leather warmed by sunlight. It’s woodsy and earthy and perfect for this lumberjack look-alike.
“You don’t have to carry me,” I stammer, though I make no move to escape. My hero doesn’t seem to care, and it feels too good, too safe, to be held like this.
“Shoes like that don’t do well in Braysville,” he says, his mouth quirking slightly.
“You have roads and sidewalks,” I mutter. “And I can walk fine when I’m not being ambushed by hillbilly assholes.”
He chuckles, walking carefully as he weaves through the thickening darkness of the forest, always careful to keep me clear of low-hanging branches and twisted roots.
“What’s your name?” It seems the polite thing to ask.
“Nixon,” he says. “And yours?”
“Scarlet.”
His gaze dips to meet mine, and in the shadows, his eyes catch what little light remains, twin points of gleaming sapphire. “Red,” he says, a slow smirk blooming on his mouth. “Like Little Red Riding Hood?”
I roll my eyes with a sigh, too tired to be offended, though the comparison grates. “No. Like Scarlet. No muffins in my basket. Just chisels and screwdrivers.”
“Red Riding Hood was dumb. She did everything her momma told her not to, and the only reason she survived was because she was rescued by a man.” Even as I say it, I realize that I’m pretty much in the exact same situation.
Woodcutter and wolves to the rescue.
His eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t ask me what the hell I’m talking about. He’s clearly not the kind of man who wastes words unless he has to.
