Page 32 of Snowbound

He saw me, even then. And he never walked away.

He walked in and sat back down beside me.

“Who was it?” he asked.

He was eighteen then, barely skimming the edge of manhood, but already solid—sturdy in that way boys are just before they become dangerous. His hands were the size of frisbees, wide and calloused, already capable of damage.

“I told you,” I said. “He didn’t do anything wrong, Owen.”

“He didn’t know what he had.”

Owen looked away as he said it, regret in his voice. “I should’ve protected you. Something else is bothering you, lass.”

I couldn’t look at him.

The first betrayal—pictures of me, floating around on the internet, without my consent. Barely clothed, in a skimpy bathing suit, the strap undone, my tan lines and the undercurve of my breasts showing.

Me, trusting someone I shouldn’t have.

I never knew what Owen did to him. The boy who took them, added captions, and spread them everywhere.

All I knew was that he left school and never came back. And I’ve always wanted to ask.

I blink. I want to ask him.

But I can’t, not now. Not when the ice is still melting from Owen’s boots and puddling on the floor. Not when he’s looking at me like that—like I’m something worth coming back for.

He locks the door, kicks off his boots, and shrugs off his coat. Then he stands there—bare-chested in gray sweats, his muscles sharp under soft firelight.

I follow him to the fire and watch him toss another log into the flames. I watch the way he moves… slow, controlled.

He stokes it, and the flames climb higher—snapping, crackling, dancing.

And my writer’s mind… it imagines that’s what he’s doing to me—setting me ablaze. Some sort of metaphor for the way he ignites every part of me.

“The snow’s fresh, Emma,” he says, looking toward the frosted window. “No one’s come near the cabin.”

“Still,” I murmur, chewing the inside of my lip.

He turns toward me, his jaw a clean, hard shadow.

“Emma,” he says. His voice is low. Final. Stern. “No one’s here. But if they were,no oneis getting past me. You’re safe.”

A twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth, a hint of something warm and amused. “And if they did, by some miracle, get past me,” he adds, “I’m confident you’d take them out with that fireplace poker.”

I laugh under my breath. “You’re mocking me.”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head.

But I believe him. Not just because of how tall and terrifying and immovable he looks… but because of the way he looks atme.

“Here,” he says, reaching for something beside the fire. “There’s a second poker if you need it.”

Now I’m laughing, too, even as I clutch the blanket tighter around my chest.

Safe?

Yes.So safe.