Page 54 of Snowbound
She comes with my name on her lips.
After… I hold her. The fire crackles behind us—the window still fogged and the tree still blinking.
And then, quietly, carefully, like it might ruin everything, she whispers, "I could stay."
Could she? Could she stay, knowing she was not just fucking her stepbrother, but a murderer? Would she stay knowing what I do?
My arms tighten around her. She goes on, barely breathing now. “Maybe… this is where I’m meant to be.”
Ofcourseit fucking is. But I don’t answer.
“Let’s get your book finished first, hmm?” I say, rising to my feet and kissing the top of her head. She grabs my hand when I go to bring our empty mugs to the kitchen and kisses my palm.
Christ, she undoes me.
When I come back, she’s staring at her phone, her brows knit in that way that means she’s worried.
“You know. It’s weird…” Her voice trails off.
“What is, lass?” I pick up one of the blankets and fold it, laying it across the back of the chair. We made a right mess in here. I made a right mess ofher.
“Haven’t heard from Jake. He hasn’t texted. Usually by now, he’s sending these stupid fucking long-ass apologies. Crying. Telling me he can’t stand being the one on the outside.”
I nod slowly. She needs to talk. I need to tamp down the rage that bubbles inside me.
“It’s just not like him. He’s always tried to come back.”
I settle beside her, my hand brushing her thigh. “That’s the thing with narcissists, right? They always come back until they know they’ve lost all control. Then they disappear. Not because they’re done but because they want to pretend they’re the wounded ones.”
She goes quiet.
I could tell her more. Could explain exactly why Jake isn’t coming back this time. How I made sure of it.
But I don’t. I can’t.
What she can’t know is how far I’d go to keep her here.
She hasn’t moved, not really. She’s still curled beside me on the couch, but her mind’s already gone somewhere I can’t follow. That distant look appears again, like she’s not just remembering but mourning something that never deserved a eulogy.
I watch her fingers tighten around her phone.
“Why do you want to hear from him?” My voice is low, but direct. “You want him to apologize? Again?” Christ, I hate the fucking bastard and hate that she felt obligated to tether herself to him for so damn long.
She doesn’t answer right away, just breathes. “I want closure.”
I shrug. “Maybe closure’s overrated. He was always a spineless prick. Too damn cold for him to come find you.”
She snorts. “I served him divorce papers, and he fell to his knees,” she says bitterly. “Begging.”
I make a face. “Begging, was he? Like some spineless feck.”
She gives me a look, but not the one that means stop. The one that means you’re not wrong.
“Closure?” I scoff, rising, pacing toward the kitchen counter just so I don’t snap. “Bleedin’ Christ, Emma, he already showed you what he is. You want a letter now? A final stamp on what a prick he was?”
“Well, one thing about you hasn’t changed,” she says.
“What’s that?”
