Page 11 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

The cold emptiness of the bed wakes me before the light does. My hand drifts across the sheets, searching instinctively for warmth that isn’t there.

Dominic is gone.

The storm still rages outside, muffled by thick stone walls and heavy glass, but in here, it’s the absence that claws at me.

The place where he should be.

The space he left me to ache alone.

I press my palm into the cool mattress, swallowing down the ridiculous sting in my chest.

It’s better this way.

Boundaries. Distance. Control.

And still, every part of me aches for the man who isn’t in this bed.

The scent of coffee draws me down the stairs, the rich, dark aroma winding through the house like a trail of smoke.

I dress quickly—another borrowed outfit, Dominic’s clothes still far too large on my frame, but somehow more intimate for it .

The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks nothing like the polished wine director I was before.

Flushed cheeks. Bright, wild eyes.

A woman stripped bare in every way that matters.

Downstairs, Dominic stands at the kitchen counter, his back to me, broad shoulders framed against the windows. One hand casually measures out coffee grounds. The other braces on the counter, raw power leashed tight beneath every controlled movement.

The sheer normalcy of the scene guts me harder than anything else. This wild, dangerous man making coffee like he hasn’t shattered me with a kiss, with a whisper, with a look.

He doesn’t turn, but somehow, he knows I’m there.

“About last night,” I say, the words rasping out, barely a breath.

It hangs between us like smoke.

“Professional boundaries.” Dominic nods, his face impassive. “Message received.”

“I—just…” I falter, helpless, the words dissolving like ash in my mouth. I want to explain, but I don’t even know what I want anymore.

“You don’t need to explain.” He places the coffee grounds in filter paper and preps the coffee maker. “I got caught up in the moment. The storm. The isolation. The wine. It happens.”

Not to me!

His dismissal should be precisely what I want, but it lands like a blade between my ribs.

“Right. Of course.”

“Sleep well?” His voice is low. Rough. Almost cruel.

“No,” I say without thinking. It’s the truth, jagged and raw.

“Good.” He offers me a mug, as if it’s a peace offering, but he has no intention of honoring it.

“Good?” I echo, stunned.

“A fitting punishment,” he says, casually brutal. “Don’t you think?” His dominance rolls off him in waves—quiet but absolute.

Not angry.

Not cruel.

Just inevitable.

Like he meant for me to suffer.

To lie awake thinking about him.

To feel every second of the space he left empty.

I wrap my hands around the mug, desperate for something solid.

“And why exactly,” I say, voice low, a little shaky, “did I deserve to be punished?”

His mouth curves. Slow. Dark. A man savoring the slow tightening of a snare.

“You watched me, Elena .” Low. Certain. Dangerous. “You stood in the dark, knowing damn well you should’ve turned away, yet you stayed.”

“I—” My cheeks blaze. Shame and hunger winding tighter inside me.

He steps closer, the space between us tightening like a noose.

“You think you get to establish boundaries,” he murmurs, voice stroking over me like rough velvet, “and then look without consequence?”

My breath hitches.

“You think you get to trespass,” he says, slow and lethal, “into something private, and not feel the weight of it?” The air thickens, sharp and glittering with tension. “You wanted boundaries.” He steps closer, until I have to tilt my chin to meet his gaze.

I nod once, desperate and stricken.

“I’ll honor that,” he says, the words sinking into me like hooks. “I’ll respect your limits, but you should understand something.”

"What?"

“Boundaries go both ways,” he murmurs, the words sinking like a brand into my skin. "If I can’t touch you, then you can’t watch me. You drew a line. I honored it."

I tremble under his unrelenting heat.

His voice drops to a low, lethal whisper—a dark, velvet promise.

“You asked for distance. Respect.” His breath is hot against my skin. “I’ll give it to you.” He pulls back just enough that I see the fire blazing behind his eyes. “For as long as you can stand it. When you’re ready to cross that line,” he whispers, “you’ll have to be the one to do it.”

The ground tilts under me.

A long, aching beat passes between us.

Measured. Merciless.

He pulls back just enough that I see the fire raging behind his eyes.

“But understand this…” His hand curls under my chin again, tipping my face up—holding me there, suspended on the razor’s edge. He pulls back just enough that I see the fire raging behind his eyes.

He doesn’t kiss me. Just looks at me. Strips me down with the smoldering heat in his eyes.

A beat.

His voice sinks lower, thick with promise, brutal with certainty.

"When you cross that line…" His thumb drags slowly over my lower lip, making my body lock tight with need. “I won’t hold back.”

The words hit me like a blow—savage and dark and unholy. Every cell in my body responds, wild and desperate.

My breath catches. My body clenches tight with need, the hunger ripping through me so raw I almost stagger.

He stares at me for one endless moment—watching, measuring.

Then, he releases me.

Steps away.

Withdraws so completely it feels like a wound.

“Now, eat your breakfast,” Dominic commands, his voice gruff and indifferent. Like nothing just happened. “You’re going to need your strength.”

The words snap through the charged air between us, cutting the last fragile thread tethering me to sanity.

I stand there, reeling.

Burning.

Shaken down to the bone by a man who can light me up with a single look—and then turn away like it meant nothing.

Dominic moves back to the stove with the casualness of a man checking the weather, not a man who just promised to ruin me the second I let him.

He flips a pancake with an easy flick of his wrist. The sizzle of batter hitting hot iron fills the silence. The scent of strong coffee curls through the kitchen.

I scrape my chair back and sink onto a chair at the table, fingers trembling as I reach for the mug he set in front of me. The heat of it burns my palms, but I welcome the sting. Anything to ground myself.

Because inside, I’m shaking.

“We have more pressing concerns anyway.” His voice is steady, completely detached now, as if he hadn’t just pulled my soul out and set it on fire.

He jerks his chin toward the window, where thick snow blurs the world into a featureless white curtain.

"Concerns?"

“Radio said this storm system is intensifying. ”

I tear my gaze from him, forcing myself to focus on the storm.

Forcing myself to remember why I’m here.

Business.

Boundaries.

Survival.

“How much longer?” I manage, proud that my voice doesn’t crack.

“At least another day, maybe two, before it tapers off.” He pours more coffee like he’s discussing a grocery list, not our enforced captivity. “Then it depends on how quickly they can clear the roads.”

Another day.

Another night.

Another endless stretch of pretending I don’t ache for the man standing ten feet away, completely unaffected while I unravel thread by thread.

The prospect of continued confinement with Dominic after that kiss, his voice in my ear, and the brutal truth he laid at my feet fills me with dread and desperate, clawing anticipation.