Page 3 of Wolf It Down, Knot Me Up

He laughs. It’s a rough sound. “That’s not my story to share.” Then he grins, and it’s all teeth. I try not to cringe.

“So you work with my grandma?” I say.

“In some capacity.”

Something cold turns over in my stomach. Grandma can read a stranger’s soul over a cup of tea. If she thinks Roman checks out, then he’s fine. He just has the social skills of a rabbit trap. Lots of people do, seeing as I dated two of them.

“Great,” I say, cheerier than I feel.

Rusty’s Bend spreads forward into a long main street with side streets that lead to grocery stores and more shops, along with residential homes. We pass the bakery, and the smell of bread leaves me salivating. I have a weakness for freshly baked pastries.

Grandma and I used to come here during our monthly grocery runs, and she’d buy me one of the cinnamon rolls.

We stroll past the craft store with knitted scarves, hand-carved miniature squirrels, and a quilt with a wolf on it because this town loves them. The hunting and outdoor store window is filled with camouflage and crossbows. We pass a few people who keep to themselves.

“Let me carry your bag.” Roman holds out a hand, his gaze on my backpack, his fingers curling.

I hesitate at first as it’s everything I own at this point now that I’ve left my Miami apartment behind. Except my muscles are already strained from its weight, so I hand it over. He slings it over one shoulder and keeps walking.

The sidewalk we use turns into grass, which leads us into a park with a rusted swing set. “You’re returning home, then?”

“Yep, but it’s only temporary. I plan to help out Grandma until I work out what I want to do next.”

He lets out a loud, exhaled snort that could mean anything. He’s so strange. “What were you doing in the city?”

“I was an event planner. When a company cuts budgets, those who do the actual work are the first to be axed.” Years of building a career snatched away in minutes.

He nods with barely a smile.

We reach the end of the park where the forest begins. There are no fences or signs, just a wall of trees with a narrow track—worn dirt and pine needles—between two red pines, and Roman steps onto it without pause.

I flip my hood up over my head and follow him in.

The scent of pines and damp earth fills the air. There’s also the cold breath of the creek somewhere off to the left. Woodsmoke, faint, finds us from someone’s chimney, as there are homes peppered through these woods.

We follow the trail that climbs gently up through the pines, and the forest closes over us. Sun falls through the canopy in dusty lines of light. Birds nearby argue with their chirps.

And then… a scent of sweet, spiced cinnamon, and underneath, a slightly burned caramel. It threads around me.

My whole body leans toward the scent, which is in the opposite direction of Roman, as I’m downwind of him, and he smells like worn sneakers.

This is someone else?

Goosebumps litter my arms at the unfamiliar scent.

“You coming?” Roman calls back from where I’ve fallen behind. The scent fades, and I hurry after him.

“Coming.” I run to catch up, but the toe of my boot hooks under a root, because God forbid, if only once, I could walk like a normal person. I catch a low branch to stop myself from falling.

But Roman’s paused, standing still in the middle of the trail. He tilts his head to the side as if listening to something in the woods.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Quiet.”

The forest has grown silent, as have the birds.

A twig snaps somewhere in the forest, and fear cuts through me as my thoughts fly to wolves. I spin on the spot, searching the woods and shadows. There’s nothing there, which is somehow worse.