Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Where is it, anyway? It followed Reed upstairs, but I haven’t heard a sound since.
Something catches my eye at the end of the bed. A soft heap of gray fabric. I unfold it and find a man’s T-shirt, oversized and worn thin from dozens of washes. It smells like lavender, like the room. Thoughtful. I guess Reed left it for me.
It’s a strange sort of kindness, and it makes my chest ache.
I push up from the mattress, using the edge of the dresser for balance, then grab the crutch. It’s heavier than I expected, but it holds my weight. I make my slow, careful way to the bathroom. There’s fresh soap and a brand-new toothbrush laid out by the sink.
These men don’t usually have visitors?
Yeah, right.
They must have half the women in Braysville falling over themselves to visit. Maybe these are the locals all the women on TripAdvisor were raving about. I wouldn’t be surprised if this place had left more than one guest weak-kneed and breathless.
I freshen up with a washcloth, skipping the shower. I don’t want to be that vulnerable. Not here. Not yet.
Back in the room, I tug the T-shirt over my head. It’s soft and worn, and it smells like safety even though I know better. I slide beneath the crisp sheets and lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to settle my thoughts.
As I drift into sleep, a long, sharp howl slices through the stillness.
It’s close. Too close.
Painfully, I push myself upright and limp to the window. The sky is luminous with moonlight, casting silver across the clearing behind the cabin. Is it a full moon? I can’t be sure. The trees sway softly in the breeze, shadows shifting in their arms.
And there they are.
Three wolves, lithe and gray, moving together through the brush, their bodies fluid and powerful as they disappear into the forest like ghosts.
I go cold. I can’t look away.
There’s no escaping this cabin. Not safely. I may not be miles from town, but between me and civilization lies a forest thick with shadows, secrets… and wolves.
So many wolves.
5
SCARLET
I don't sleep well. Not that I expected to. My nerves keep straddling that thin line between slumber and wakefulness all night long. My ankle throbs steadily beneath the covers, a dull drumbeat that won't let me forget it's there. And every creak of the old cabin, every rustle of wind through the trees, jolts my already-frayed senses.
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, not in 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?