Snowbound

Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Emma

The song ends, but I’m still moving, half here with him and half bogged down by the memory of a younger version of me that would’ve died a thousand deaths rather than admit I liked him.

God, not liked. Loved.

His hands grip my hips, grounding me. It’s not hunger, but starvation. Deprivation. Like I’m the first meal he’s had in months, and he’s not sure whether to savor or devour.

“On your knees,” he says, his voice low. No hesitation.

My pulse stutters, but I go. Slowly and deliberately, I climb off his lap onto the floor. The wood is cold under my bare knees. My thighs are still slick from riding him through two verses and a chorus.

His eyes follow me down like a wolf watching its prey lie still. My heart hammers in my throat, and I swallow hard against rising emotion.

I want this. I want him like this, dark and dominant and barely holding it together.

But I need the words. I need to say it.

“You can do anything to me,” I whisper. “You know that, right?” My pulse races because I’ve just given him the green light. And maybe that’s why he doesn’t scare me—because he wants all of me, not just a body to come home to and forget.

He sees the parts no one stayed for.

His jaw tenses. One heartbeat passes, then two.

His eyes darken as he stands, walks to the mantle, and pulls down one of the thick red velvet ribbons wrapped around the pine garland, soft and silky.

I watch as he wraps it around his large hand, thick veins standing out, his fingers rough and calloused. Very strong, very capable hands.

Uh-oh.

“Wrists,” he says, and I raise them without a word.

He ties me carefully, not too tight, not too loose. Just a loop between my wrists like a tether.

I’m breathing fast now. My skin’s electric. The fire crackles behind me, but I feel like I’m the one burning.

“Open your mouth.”

And I do—mouth wide, tongue out, kneeling and bound, my eyes locked on his. My pulse is racing because I know exactly what he’s going to do.

He pushes down his waistband and fists his cock lazily. Like he has all the time in the world, and I’m just going to stay here, panting and naked like a little slut, until he decides I’ve earned it.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, sliding yet one more coupon into my hands.

We both know our time here is coming to a close. He’s cashing this one in.

“Say it, Emma.”

“I want it,” I whisper. “I want you.”

Not just tonight, not just like this.

He slides one hand into my hair, tightening just enough to make me gasp.

“Yes,” he says, his voice dark and soft. “You want this. You want to be used. Tied up. Owned. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

I nod, trembling. “Yes.”

His cock is thick and hard, flushed deep red. My mouth waters.

And when he finally slides it past my lips, slow and possessive, I moan like I’m the one getting fucked.

His cock fills my mouth slowly, deliberately. No rush. No mercy either. He watches every second—jaw tight, eyes hooded, his hand fisted in my hair like he’s holding himself back from something worse.

And god, I want that.

He rocks in deeper. I gag once, but I breathe in through my nose and don’t pull back. I fucking take it, take what I want.

“Christ, look at you,” he grits out. “On your knees, love. Wrapped in Christmas ribbon. Mouth full of cock.”

I moan around him. The vibration makes him curse. I cup his balls and squeeze, stroking his cock as I work him over with my tongue.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Fuck, baby, that’s it, just like that.”

His hips jerk forward, faster now. He’s using me, just like I wanted—like I asked for—fucking my mouth, and I’m on fire.

The tie burns a little against my wrists when I shift. But I like the sting… like that it proves I’m his now, kneeling in front of the fire like some twisted holiday sacrifice.

My eyes are watering. My throat’s wrecked. I’ve never been so turned on in my entire fucking life.

“You wanted to ruin me,” he says. “Back then. That night in the dress. The Christmas party. You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?”

He drags out slowly and lets me breathe.

“And now?” he says, crouching in front of me. His thumb traces my wet lips, glossy with spit and heat and him. “Now you’re mine. You hear me?”

I nod, dizzy and drunk on it.

He leans in, his mouth brushing mine.

“You take me so well, sweetheart. So fucking sweet.”

Then he stands and pulls me up by the wrists. The ribbon pulls taut. My arms stretch high above my head, bound.

He walks me backward until I hit the log beam. It’s cold against my spine.

His mouth is on my neck now. My collarbone. My breasts. He kisses them like he owns them, bites them like he’s proving it.

One hand slides between my thighs. “So wet,” he growls. “From just sucking me off. Jesus fucking Christ, Emma.”

I nod, breathless. I’m straining against the ribbon, wanting more. Wanting him.

“You want me to fuck you like this?” he asks, his voice lethal and low. “Tied up. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”

He smiles then. Dark. Dangerous.

“Merry fuckin’ Christmas.”

He turns me around, pulls my hips back, and takes me, still tied up, the glow of the Christmas lights dancing over our fused bodies.

The fire's gone low, and so has the music.

Owen’s in the bedroom, reading something on his phone. And I should just lie here and let the heat soak in. Let what just happened settle in my bones.

But something’s buzzing. A sound… a light. It’s his laptop that’s still on the table. It’s not locked now… just cracked open and glowing faintly.

I don’t mean to go to it, but I do.

With my bare feet on cold wood, the air prickles over my skin. My wrists are still faintly raw from the ribbon, the memory of him holding me there like a prayer.

I sit down and open the screen. Then I type it in: One, two, three, four. I’m greeted with boring wallpaper.

But on the top left of the screen is a folder, untitled. Last accessed two days ago.

Hands trembling, I click it, and the blood drains from my face.

Emma_Marlowe

That’s the name of the folder.

And inside? Dozens of screenshots. My socials, even the one I made private when I moved.

Emails I forgot I sent. Ones I never sent at all, still in draft. Shopping carts, coupons I saved, and bookmarked webpages. Books I wrote and never published. He has them.

A map with pins dropped. My college campus, my first apartment, the flower shop I worked at for six months after the accident, until I left because Jake made me.

My landlord’s phone number.

My grocery store receipts.

Pictures of me: some from high school, some from last year. Some I don’t remember being taken.

My hands start to shake.

He’s been watching me.

Not just this week. Not just since I got here.

For years.

I scroll faster, breathing shallow now. One tab is still open in his browser to an encrypted site with no logo, just numbers and names.

McCarthy Crew

I know that name, the infamous McCarthys of Ballyhock, Ireland.

And my name again, Emma Marlowe, next to Owen’s. There’s a red flag next to it: “CONFLICT OF INTEREST.”

I stare, blinking.

Another note below: “ASSIGNMENT: DELAYED. OBSERVATION CONTINUES. TARGET’S LOCATION SECURE.”

Target.

I’m a… target? Conflict of interest?

Why? Why would some barely known author be a conflict of interest with someone who works for the Irish mob?

My vision tilts. I slam the laptop shut.

But it’s too late because he’s there, in the doorway, his eyes locked on me—unmoving, unblinking, just watching.

“See anything, love?” he asks. His voice is flat, quiet. Too quiet, like he already knows the answer.

I stand slowly. “You told me I could.” My voice is barely there. “And if you want top security, Owen, you probably need a better password than one, two, three, four.”

“Yeah, I know.”

His hands are in his pockets like he’s holding something back.

I swallow hard. “I saw… everything.”

A long beat.

“I can explain,” he says.

My breath catches. “Don’t.”

“You need to hear it.”

“Owen, Jesus—what is this? Are you in the mafia? Were you assigned to me? Is that what this is?”

“No,” he says. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I chose you.”

My heart stutters.

“You don’t choose people like that. You don’t… track them. You don’t log receipts, or GPS their apartments, or—”

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” he interrupts, stepping forward. “You don’t know who you were mixed up with. You don’t know the fucking danger you were in. You think Jake was just some asshole ex-husband?”

Wait, what?

I blink.

“The McCarthy family,” he says. “They’re not just thugs. They wanted leverage. You were leverage.”

“And you were what?” I whisper. “My protector? My stalker?”

His face twists, and he doesn’t answer.

He steps closer. My back hits the wall. His hands slam on either side of my head.

“You want the truth?” he growls. “Fine.”

“So you’ve been tracking me?” I don’t ask. I say it, letting it hang in the air like smoke.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“All this time I’ve been in this cabin with you…” My voice trails. I connect the dots. “I thought I had shitty cell reception.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I blocked some of your contacts.”

Our eyes lock. Something tight coils in my stomach. “Is that what this is, Owen? You want to control me?” My throat burns. “I don’t know how I feel about that, especially after everything Jake did.”

His eyes flash at me. “Fuck Jake.”

His fist slams into the wall. I jump, and a picture frame rattles.

“You don’t know who he was,” Owen growls. “You don’t know what he did.”

“And you do?” I stare at him, disbelief burning behind my eyes.

“Yeah, Em,” he snaps. “I fuckin’ do. Jake used you, Emma. He used you to get to your mother.” He pauses, catching his breath. “My father.”

“What?”

The word comes out on instinct. I shake my head, trying to make it make sense.

“They always talked about what a good man he was, didn’t they?”

I nod slowly, my throat too tight to speak.

“It’s because my dad worked for the McCarthy clan too. That’s how he got me a job.”

Alright, makes sense, I guess. “And my mom?” The words taste bitter.

“She was in on it too.” His voice is quieter now, like he’s ashamed. “That’s how she made her money.”

I stagger back half a step. “I was the only one who didn’t know about this,” I whisper. “The only idiot left in the dark.”

I feel small, like a kid again… like the time I found out Santa wasn’t real.

“I don’t understand.” I turn away from him, teeth sinking into my bottom lip. “My parents…”

“Your mother and my dad didn’t want me to have anything to do with you.” He sighs. “Said it was because we were siblings.”

“But you know the truth,” I say. “You know we weren’t.”

“I know.”

“They wanted me with Jake because he was the rich boy. Only he wasn’t,” I continue, my voice shaking. “He spent all his parents’ money, right?”

Owen doesn’t answer.

“Didn’t turn out to be a good decision for anybody, did it?” I let out a deep exhale. “I feel like I’ve been used.”

His breath is ragged. So is mine. “I stayed on the crew to keep eyes on them. To get close. For you. Because the second I saw your name on that fucking list, I knew I had to protect you.”

“Why was I on their list?”

“Because your fucking husband got you in too deep. You think he just spent your money? Nah. He spent anyone’s he could, and he borrowed money from the wrong fucking people.”

How does he know all this? I stare up at him, my heart cracking open.

“You think this is obsession? It is. I won’t deny it. But I’d kill for you, Em.”

He leans in close, so close I can feel his heart hammering. I turn away and look out the window. Outside, the snow is melting. Brown patches of grass peek through where white once blanketed the earth.

And now that it’s thawing, I can see further, way off in the distance—a house.

I know whose it is before he says it.

“That’s my place,” Owen says, watching where I look.

“Is it?” I whisper. “My god. Your house is so close.”

He doesn’t say anything, just gives a tight nod.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” he says finally. “But I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“He didn’t treat me the way he should have.”

I need to know. “What did you do to Jake?” I ask. The words feel heavy, weighted.

“I told him to leave you alone.”

“You did that without asking me.”

“I told you I didn’t want him in your life.”

“I have things we need to talk about.”

“Things you can discuss with your lawyers,” Owen snaps.

“Owen…”

I look away. I knew this was too good to be true—the two of us… alone, in love.

And I knew, once the snow thawed, the truth would come with it.

I look down at my phone, tapping into the blocked contacts.

My mom.

Owen.

His dad.

And Jake.

I unblock each one of them as he watches. My finger trembles.

And the messages come in—one after the other. And another, and another.

I feel the weight on my shoulders, heavy and oppressive. “So it wasn’t just bad cell reception,” I whisper.

Owen shakes his head. “No, lass.” He sighs. “Do you need space, Emma?” he asks.

I swallow. It hurts.

“Yeah.”

Even though the thought of him leaving me makes me want to cry, I nod. “I need to think this through.”

“Alright, then,” he says quietly. “I’ll go back to my house. You take what you need.”

But then he looks at me, his eyes dark. “Do me a favor, Emma.” His voice drops. “Don’t leave without coming to see me first.”

“Yeah…” I nod.

But he’s told a lie.

Now it’s my turn.