Page 37 of Snowbound

I fumbled for the kitchen door, my hand gripping the knob, my pulse wild. Just get inside. Get away. Breathe.

Then his voice stopped me cold.

“Turn around andlookat me.”

Sharp. Authoritative. Commanding.

My blood didn’t just hum—it roared… liquid fire through my veins.

“What?” I threw it back like a challenge, the quintessential teenage deflection. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” he repeated, stepping closer. His eyes darkened. “My problem is that you’re under my care, and you took your mother’s fucking car out. Didn’t you?”

I swallowed hard. My throat was dry.

“I’m not supposed to listen to you,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “We’re both just here, together. Remember? You’re not my?—”

“That’s not what your mother said.”

His eyes narrowed, his whole expression shifting. That look. The one that made my stomach twist like I was on a roller coaster with no brakes.

“What are you talking about?” I tried to sound calm. Tried to look like one of those girls he flirted with—cool, composed, unfazed. Not like the little sister I always feared he saw when he looked at me.

“Before your mother left,” he said slowly, deliberately, “she told me to keep an eye on you. Watch out for you. Didn’t she?”

He smiled, but it wasn’t soft. It was smug. Confident. Unshakable.

“Whatever,” I muttered. “I’m almost an adult.”

“Not whatever. And ‘almost’ isn’t the same,” he snapped. “Did you or did you not take your mother’s car out without permission? Yes or no?”

I had to force myself to breathe. “I’m old enough to have my license.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His voice was even sterner now, and I felt like I was being dragged in two different directions. Shame and desire, fury and longing. My heart fluttered so hard it hurt.

“I…” I clenched my legs together, embarrassed. So many feelings, so much heat in my chest and cheeks. “Yes. Fine. I went for a little ride. Okay?”

“And you damaged the fucking bumper,” he growled, his Irish brogue thicker with anger. “Look at this. Mud all over the bloody tires. You could’ve hurt yourself.”

He bent down, inspecting the bumper, his fingers grazing the scratches, the muck, the mess I’d made. Then suddenly, he stood up and spun around.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he demanded, his voice low and furious.

I shook my head quickly, humiliated. “No. I’m fine.”

“Good,” he snapped. “Get inside. Go to bed.”

“You’re not my father, Owen,” I shot back, bristling. I needed to defend myself. To claw back just a little power. Even though, deep down, some part of me liked it—him taking control. Liked it way too much. “You can’t boss me around like that,” I said, my voice rising. “Even my own father didn’t talk to me that way.”

“Maybe that’s the fucking problem.” He pointed a finger at me, his whole presence towering and magnetic. “You’re grounded until your mom gets back, Emma.I’mthe one in charge. I won’t have you hurting yourself on my watch. Do you understand me?”

His voice was low but lethal, and my cheeks flamed with mortification.

“Our parents are gone for the weekend. You’re under my protection.” His tone sharpened. “And that means, you’ll do what I fucking say. Now get in that house and go to bed. And if I hear one more word from you, so help me…”

He didn’t finish the threat. He didn’t have to.