Page 27 of Taken By The Wolves
“Outside?” I sip my coffee. “Is that safe? Aren’t there... wild things in these woods?”
Reed leans in, voice low. “Only if you wander off the path.”
Finn appears at the back door, smiling. “Or if you invite them in.”
I blink. The way they exchange subtle and unreadable glances sets something twisting low in my gut.
“Speaking of wild things,” I say slowly, “what happened to that giant dog?”
There’s a pause. One breath too long. The kind that reveals secrets lurking beneath.
Finn clears his throat. “He’s tame. You don’t have to worry about him. He goes where he wants.”
Nixon follows with a nod. Reed grins into his coffee like a man remembering a joke.
Right. That’s not suspicious at all.
I let it drop for now, even as questions needle at me.
“What can I contribute tonight?” I ask instead. “I guess your grilling expertise doesn’t extend to dessert.”
Reed perks up. “Dessert?”
I shrug. “I make a mean muffin. Blueberry. Sometimes apple-cinnamon if I’m in an ambitious mood.”
“Apple,” Finn says quietly.
Reed tilts his head. “We’ll need to supervise that. Thoroughly. Taste-test the batter. Maybe twice.”
“You’re our guest,” Nixon says. “You don’t have to cook.”
“Maybe not,” I reply, “but I don’t want to lie around looking pretty while you do all the work.”
Reed leans forward, grin sharpening. “Lying around looking pretty isexactlywhat I want you to do.”
“Don’t mind him,” Finn murmurs. “He was raised by wolves.”
I snort. Nixon’s mouth twitches.
Outside, the sun is climbing past the treetops, and everything feels normal. A woman and three men in a cabin in the woods, drinking coffee and making plans, as if the tension isn’t palpable and the world outside these walls doesn’t thrum with danger.
This could be a life for another woman who didn’t know the danger of strangers and wasn’t sure that her brokenness would fracture anything good.
As Nixon and Reed leave for the lumberyard, Reed throws a wink over his shoulder and says, “Try not to seduce Finn while we’re gone.”
“I’ll do my best,” I murmur, but the smile that pulls at my mouth contains more than humor. Even though I’d never admit it, the idea of kissing Finn, and discovering if he kisses like his stern brother, is what I’m thinking about as they leave.
Finn stays behind. He’s quieter and more restrained than the others, but there’s a magnetism in his calm and silence that draws me in. He’s a kindred spirit with his creativity, and I find that artistic part of him intriguing.
“I want to show you something,” he says after a moment.
“Sure.” I grab my crutch in readiness.
Finn walks out back to a workshop nestled between the trees. I’m still hobbling, but my mobility has improved overnight. His place of work is a rustic outbuilding with sunlight pouring through sawdust-clouded windows ontorows of tools, carved wood, and unfinished projects that hum with potential. The space is warm and smells like pine and varnish, scents that are familiar and relaxing.
“This is where I work,” he says simply, watching as I take it all in.
I run my fingers over a narrow table, the scrollwork delicate and elegant, the craftsmanship so fine. “You made this?”
