Page 38 of Snowbound
My face still burning lobster red, I turned and ran. I resisted the urge to snap something smart at him, though every part of me wanted to. I wasn’t going to be petulant. Not tonight.
I wanted him to see me. Really see me.
Not as a kid.
Not as someone to protect.
But as a girl who could make her own damn choices.
Why couldn’t he see that?
And now,here I am. A full-grown woman, sitting in the dark, my heart pounding, mind spinning, and yet I’ve never felt younger. It’s like I’ve been mentally time-warped, sucked straight back into that awkward, shy girl I used to be. The one who thought she was madly in love with a boy she couldn’t have.
The same boy who’s now the sexiest goddamn man alive, and standing just feet away from me.
Owen’s voice comes from the doorway—thick with heat. “What’s your word count?”
Knowing what’s coming—that he’s going to punish me, that I want it—makes my stomach twist in confusion and need. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I need.
But in the very next breath, none of it matters anymore.
Because he’s in my space. Right there. Close, dominating the room. His presence is like a wall. His eyes lock onto mine, unreadable, intense.
“Did you do this on purpose, Emma?” he asks, his voice stern, his arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging beneath his rolled sleeves.
I bite my lip as my heart rattles in my chest. I can’t answer. I glance out the window instead, watching snow spiral through the darkness. The storm has swallowed everything. We’re still snowed in.
Trapped.
There’s no running now—not from my past, not from the memories, and definitely not from the man standing in front of me.
I shake my head.
“No?” It comes out too quiet, too soft.
“Is that a question?” he asks, his voice dipping lower, thick with command.
He sits at the edge of the bed, spreading his legs slightly, and planting his boots on the floor like he owns it all—me included. His gaze holds mine, never blinking.
He pats his knee… once, firmly.
“Over,” he says.
My body freezes. I don’t know if I can. Every muscle locks. My limbs feel heavy, like I’m sinking in wet cement.
Are my fears holding me back? Is it desire? Panic? Or something else entirely? Something hotter and more dangerous.
Can he tell? Can he see how badly I want this?
I swallow hard. My tongue darts out to wet my dry lips.
“Now, Emma,” he says again, his tone grating against my nerves, deadly calm. “Or this is going to get much worse for you.”
And somehow, I move.
I throw the covers off. My laptop topples to the side, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. I stare at it for a beat, like it might offer me an escape hatch.
Was this really the right decision?
