Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Emma
But then he’s gone with a growl, telling me to stay put.
Owen tried to reassure me, but he doesn’t trust that it was just an icicle.
I didn’t think it was possible—the snow was piled halfway up the door—but he shoved on a pair of boots, threw on a jacket, and forced his way through the snowbank like it was nothing.
The blanket’s still warm where his body was.
The sound is still in my ears—the howl, the smash—and now my heart is pounding even harder in the silence than it was when we were tangled together by the fire.
I sit up, still naked under the blanket, straining to listen. But all I can hear is the fire hissing low in the hearth.
The door creaks again.
What if I’m alone? What if someone did hurt him, and I’m stranded here—alone, in the fucking woods, with nothing to defend myself?
I get to my feet.
No. I’m not just going to sit here and wait. I won’t let Owen get hurt. There’s been enough of that for both of us. And I didn’t survive everything I’ve gone through just to be left behind. Not now. Not after him.
I grab the hot poker by the fire and stick it deep into the coals until it’s glowing orange. Then, brandishing it like a weapon, I turn and face the door, my heart racing.
If someone walks in here, they’re not going to find some helpless girl. I’m fucking ready.
The door creaks again.
And then—it’s him.
Owen fills the doorway like something conjured from another time—a model, a soldier, a bearded fucking god, muscular and dangerous. The firelight flickers over the ridges of his neck and the edge of his chest, bare under the jacket he barely bothered to zip.
He looks completely unfazed.
“What the bloody hell are you doing holding that?” he says, his brows raised.
“I didn’t know if someone was going to get you,” I snap. “And I didn’t want to be alone. I was ready to kill someone.”
“With that?” he asks, eyeing the poker. Then his expression shifts into something thoughtful, impressed.
“That might actually work,” he mutters. Then, a little more serious, “You know where it hit?” He gestures toward the outside. “Ice came off the roof. Took out the sled, the big one. It’s dangerous.”
I blink. “Are you sure?”
He nods. “Aye. I’d know if someone was out there.”
“But I thought I heard an animal?”
“In the distance. Nothing nearby, like I suspected. Sounds carry in the cold out here, with nothing to block or insulate them.”
And then he steps in closer, his voice like gravel and thunder. “If someone was here, Emma, I’d fight to the fucking death.”
My chest tightens. “I know,” I whisper. “I do know.”
The snow melting from his boots hits the fire. There’s a hiss… the scent of damp wool. And I’m back—seventeen, sobbing into my pillow.
Owen found me sobbing in my bedroom, heartbroken over a stupid boy who didn’t deserve an ounce of me. I didn’t see him standing in the doorway, but he saw me—watched me fall apart, silent and still.
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 one is 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 at me.
“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.
“You know I can use a knife too,” I say, lifting my chin.
He raises a brow, slightly amused.
“We used to go fishing,” I reply carefully. I don’t say my ex’s name… not in front of Owen. Not in front of anyone. He doesn’t deserve it.
“I had to learn how to gut and clean them too.” I shudder. My god, what I did for that loser…
“God,” Owen mutters, crossing his arms over that godlike chest of his. “I thought you feckin’ hated fishing.”
“I do,” I say, scrunching my nose.
His grin is huge and proud. The lights are still out, and the wind howls again—quieter now, softer.
And I like it.
I like being snowed in here.
With Owen.
No notifications. No buzzing.
No distractions from my work.
The world outside is a frozen dream, with the scent of cinnamon in the air, and the only light in the cabin from the glowing fireplace. Moonlight glints on the snow outside.
But in here—it’s warm.
He climbs back onto the couch beside me, and his arm wraps around my shoulders.
I melt into him. It’s warm and comfortable… and my eyes begin to close.
“Alright, to bed with you,” he murmurs, bending to lift me. And I let him. My hands go around his sturdy neck, my legs nestled in his arms. I savor every second of this.
I’m already dozing by the time my head hits the pillow.
I fall asleep with his chest pressed to my cheek.
And I sleep like the dead.