Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Owen
Emma stands in the hallway, fidgeting with the hem of that too-thin sweater.
The one that makes it impossible not to imagine what my hands would feel like slipping beneath it.
It's ivory, soft from years of wear, and so threadbare I can see the delicate slope of her shoulders beneath it, like a secret begging to be uncovered.
She looks up at me from beneath those thick lashes, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink. “I did it,” she says proudly.
“Good girl.”
It comes out automatically, unthinking, and she soaks in the praise like a cat stretching into a patch of sunlight. She inhales through her nose, slow and deep, then exhales like she’s trying to hold onto the moment just a little longer, her eyes hopeful and soft.
Goddamn. Makes me want to do it again.
“Mmm. Something smells good. What is that?”
I’ve seen the hard edges she’s adopted for survival soften in the short time we’ve been with each other already.
“Lunch,” I say, with a casual shrug.
The Owen she used to know lived off boxed mac and cheese and frozen pizza. Her smirk is knowing, a tease. “You?”
I nod with a crooked grin. “I’ve got a taste for more adult things these days.”
She smiles and wraps her arms around herself like she’s still trying to protect herself. Is it me she’s afraid of? Or is it the vulnerability? Maybe it’s the part of her that still hasn’t decided if I’m safe to want.
I hope it’s that. Feckin’ hell, I hope it’s that.
You and me both, Em. You and me both.
“But, I have to admit,” I say, smiling, “I’ve never found a chicken nugget I didn’t like.”
She laughs, her eyes lighting up. “Oh god. Even those… fast food ones?”
I nod solemnly. “Especially those. If I can dip them into one of those tiny packets of sweet and sour sauce? Heaven.”
She shrugs, lips tilting. “Your Irish ancestors are turning in their graves. Eh, maybe nostalgia runs deep.”
The words hang between us, suspended in the air like something heavy and sweet and aching.
“Nostalgia runs deep,” I echo. “It does, doesn’t it?”
I glance up—her gaze has drifted to the mistletoe I strung above the doorway to her room. Her breath catches.
She’s catching on. Smart girl.
I nod, serious. “House rule. You don’t pass through one unless I decide what you owe.”
Her lips part. I stare as her breath hitches. My god, I love doing this to her.
“Well, that’s not fair.”
“No,” I say, my voice low, deliberate. “It’s not.”
I reach up and gently brush a curl behind her ear. My fingers linger. I do it with intention, savoring the way she shivers beneath my touch.
“I never said it was fair.”
I step in, close enough that her back meets the doorframe. She stares up at me with that look—half-terrified, half aching. The one that makes something inside me snap.
Her lips part. “So what’ll it be this time?”
“This time?” I murmur, leaning in. “A kiss.”
“Just a kiss? A boring old kiss?”
Just a kiss. That’s what I tell myself.
As if kissing her is anything but magical.
My voice is a bit husky when I lean in close. “I need to warm you up, don’t I?”
She swallows and tilts her head. Her eyes flicker, uncertain.
I wonder if she still thinks of this as forbidden.
If she still hears the word stepbrother like a curse.
Thinks about the years we spent dancing around it, burying what we were under layers of guilt and expectation.
Our parents. The fury. The judgment from people who never understood what it felt like to burn like this.
“Emma,” I whisper, sliding my finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to mine.
She swallows hard. Her lips are soft and parted, her eyes locked onto mine.
“Yes?”
“Does anyone really need to know?” My voice is barely a whisper now, my fingers grazing the side of her neck. Her pulse hammers beneath my touch.
She breathes, shallow and fast. “Know what?”
I lean closer, my mouth brushing against hers.
“That I was the one who did unspeakable things to you.”
Her gasp breaks in her throat. Her pupils blow wide, and there’s something wild and hungry in her eyes now.
Finally, she says it. Just a whisper. “Unspeakable things… like what?”
“Is that a dare?” I murmur into her ear.
She can’t stop the sound that slips from her lips, low and involuntary. My hand moves to her back, my fingers spanning the narrow line of her waist. I let the silence stretch until I can feel her squirming, her breath catching.
Then I lean in again, my voice low, velvet-wrapped steel. “Things that would make you unrecognizable to yourself. Things that would make you mine. Forever. And definitely unblocked.”
She shivers and lets out a breathy laugh that turns into a moan.
I draw back just enough to meet her eyes.
“No one needs to know,” I say again, this time heavy with promise. With threat. With the certainty of what I’d do before I let anyone take her from me.
She doesn’t move. Her breath comes in stutters. Her gaze flicks to my mouth.
I kiss her—once, softly. Just enough to pull her forward, to make her lean in for more. Then I kiss her again, and this time, I don’t hold back.
My hand slips beneath the threadbare sweater, fingers wide across the hot curve of her stomach. Her skin is on fire.
I want to burn with her.
She arches into me, shivering.
“Every kiss under the mistletoe,” I whisper against her lips, “belongs to me.”
I’ve hidden them everywhere. Dozens of them. Over every threshold, every door, every window. She has no idea what she owes me.
But she will.
I set it up this way. Carefully. So that with every step she takes in this cabin, she’ll have to pay for it. In kisses. In moans. In that sound she makes only for me.
Of course, I’ll make it worth her while.
She sits curled in that oversized chair now, a blanket around her shoulders, legs tucked beneath her like a girl who doesn’t know what she’s in for.
The fire crackles gently. The glow of it casts flickering shadows across her face. Across mine. The snow outside has finally stopped.
The sun hits the windows hard. I wonder how much of it will melt today. We got several feet yesterday, maybe more.
It’ll take days to thaw out.
Good. We need them.
Her eyes are heavy-lidded after everything we’ve done this morning. There’s a softness in her now, an openness I haven’t seen in too long. I’m still not used to how quiet it is here.
“No cell phone, no noise, no cars, no nothing,” she says quietly, like the silence might break if she speaks too loud.
She exhales and closes her eyes again, melting into it. I like it too. I kneel in front of her, balancing a wooden bowl of pasta in one hand, a spoon in the other.
“Hungry?”
Her eyes flutter open. “Yes,” she murmurs, catching sight of what I’m holding. Her eyes brighten when she sees the bowl—cream sauce, fresh spinach, ribboned pasta, still steaming.
“You like that it’s so quiet here?” I ask.
“I do,” she says softly, the words falling like a confession. A pause. “There’s so much noise at home.” She closes her eyes again and breathes out a tired sigh. “Even when no one was there.”
I understand. I know exactly what kind of noise she means.
“I think you’ve got another writing session this afternoon, don’t you?” I say gently. She cracks one eye open, warily. I give her a look.
“Yes,” she admits.
“Good. Then let’s get you fed.” I lift the spoon. “Open.”
She does—slowly, lips parting around the spoon with a hesitation that makes my chest ache. It’s almost shy, almost innocent. Maybe she hasn’t been spoon-fed since she was a baby. Maybe that’s why her reaction feels so tender, so unsure.
I watch her mouth a beat too long. Too closely. My thoughts turn filthy in an instant. Every spoonful I give her is slow and deliberate. I want her to understand what it feels like to be taken care of—then devoured.
“You’re staring,” she whispers.
“I like what I see,” I whisper back. “You know, I like the quiet too, Emma.”
“It suits you,” she replies, almost like she’s surprised to realize it.
“You always loved those camping trips we took. You’d disappear into the woods for hours, hiking all alone.
Getting up before everyone else did. Just you, a knife, and a stick of wood you’d somehow transform into something beautiful. Do you still do that?”
I shrug. “Haven’t in a while, no. I didn’t know you remembered that.”
I feed her until the bowl is empty, and she leans back in the chair with a little sigh. Her hair’s a mess, soft and loose. She looks content. Real. Vulnerable.
“My hair’s a mess, and I feel a little gross,” she says, making a face.
“Gross?” I laugh. “What do you mean?”
“I rolled out of bed, ate breakfast, stayed in pajamas, and wrote all morning. Then we meet under one… two, let’s see—”
Her brow furrows as she counts, lips moving. “Four mistletoe spots. Then you fed me a bowl of pasta. Did you eat, Owen?”
“Aye, while you were working.”
She pauses. “I feel like I need to at least shave my legs if we’re gonna do… you know.” Her voice dips as she finishes. “Other things later. Un… blocking things.”
“Maybe you’d like a bath. They’ve got one of those old-fashioned clawfoot tubs in the bathroom.”
She smiles. “It looks cold in there.”
“It’s not. The heat’s on. Vent’s right by the tub. There’s even candles.” I smirk. “Hang on.”
I take the empty bowl to the kitchen, then head to the bathroom. I light a few of those green tapered pine candles, the kind that smell like Christmas and snow and something old. The tub is porcelain and deep, with an ivory base resting on golden lion feet. The water runs hot. Perfect.
Even the sink’s got old brass handles—one for hot, one for cold. And the window? High enough no one can see in, flooded with soft, bright winter light. It’s all perfect.
I glance up at the newest mistletoe I strung above the bathroom door and smirk. She’s mine at every turn.
I walk back to her. “I’m going to undress you.”
Her eyes drop, but she doesn’t argue. She trusts me. That’s all I need.
“Come here, Emma.”