Page 14 of Taken By The Wolves
The glance Finn shoots him is cautious.
The family dynamic is taking shape. Nixon's clearly the alpha, the one who calls the shots. Finn, I'd bet, is the peacekeeper. The bridge. Reed's probably the wild card—funny, unpredictable, and chaotic enough to keep things interesting.
What do I do now?
I could push back. Demand to go into town myself. Insist on using my phone. Start swinging this crutch like a battle-axe. But that won't get me anywhere, especially with Nixon.
So I do what I rarely do: I pause. I play the long game.
Mom won't be worried yet. She knows I'm off the gridfor the day. And maybe, I can use Nixon's overprotective streak to my advantage. If I keep my cool, sweeten the tone, and play the part of the charming guest, I might not only get access to the lumber but get Finn on board, too.
I meet Nixon's gaze across the counter. His eyes are steely.
This man is going to be the most difficult deal of my life.
But he has no idea who he's up against.
He might win this round… but he's not ready for the full Scarlet.
Not even close.
6
SCARLET
The journey to the lumber yard is shorter than I expected. So short that if my ankle weren’t swollen and pulsing like a second heartbeat, we could have walked. But Nixon, apparently done with watching me hobble around, scooped me up without ceremony and carried me to the truck.
Now, we’re rumbling along a narrow dirt track that winds through the thick of the forest. Trees crowd close like silent sentinels. The cabin disappears behind us, and the canopy opens into a clearing alive with industry. Stacks of logs are piled into high towers, and heavy-duty machinery sits at attention, accompanied by the smell of fresh wood shavings.
A large metal shed anchors the place, all corrugated steel and shadowed mystery. It’s clear this is a small operation, but it’s clean, organized, and humming with purpose. If the furniture in the cabin is any indication, these menreallyknow their wood.
When Nixon kills the engine and opens the truck door,the sharp snarl of a mechanical saw grows louder. I glance around, uncertain where the sound is coming from. Do they employ a team, or is this a three-man show?
He moves to pick me up again, but I plant my hand on his chest before he can. “Seriously, Nixon. I want to walk. Please.”
His jaw tenses, but then he grunts and steps back, his shrug betraying a quiet war inside him. He doesn’t like being told no, but he’ll accept it if I ask nicely. I file that away for later.
I follow him into the shed, where I find Reed, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, complete with a yellow hard hat and protective goggles. He’s sliding wood through an automated saw, slicing it into narrower planks with practiced ease.
He notices us as we approach, finishes the cut, and hits the switch. The machine winds down, the ear-splitting screech of the saw giving way to a softer whir, then silence.
Reed lifts his goggles and grins. “Well, well. You're giving Scarlet the grand tour now? I thought she was supposed to be off that ankle.”
“She wants to look at lumber,” Nixon replies, clipped and businesslike.
Reed spreads his arms, motioning to the endless racks of timber. “We’ve got plenty of wood. Softwood, hardwood…” His smirk is shameless, his tone full of innuendo.
I arch a brow. “You rehearsed that line?”
He winks. “Only every day of my life.”
“Ignore my brother,” Nixon mutters, steering me toward a long row of neatly labeled boards. “Everything’s categorized by species and cut. Take your time. Let me know if you have questions”.
I run my hand over a slab of honey-colored maple, the grain smooth and cool beneath my fingers. The scent of sawdust fills the air—clean, sharp, grounding. I breathe it in like a tonic. Without realizing it, I sigh.
“You like the way it feels,” Nixon says behind me.
I turn, caught in my reverie. His eyes are dark again, but there’s a heat behind them this time. Something just shy of hungry.
