Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
No food. No sleep. No hope.
Just a broken heart, a bottle of wine, and a marriage in shambles.
Then the gifts started showing up.
Firewood stacked neatly outside the door. Homemade food in the fridge and a note with all-too familiar handwriting.
He never knocked. Never spoke.
Just…watched.
Until the night I ventured too far…and he came to save me.
Now he says I belong to him.
That he’s waited years for me.
That no one—not my cheating ex, not my family, not the rules of the world—will take me from him again.
Because Owen isn’t a stranger.
He’s my stepbrother.
My forbidden first crush.
The boy they warned me about now grown into a man who knows exactly how to break me open... and make me beg for more.
This Christmas, I’m not getting jingle bells or candy canes. I’m getting dragged to bed, kissed breathless, and taken under the tree.
And I’ve never wanted anything more.
This is a dark, taboo, obsessive, stepbrother romance with intense heat, twisted love, and a very happy, very filthy ending. If you like possessive men and holiday spice, unwrap this one carefully
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
Emma
One… eight… four… seven.
Wrong.
The red error code blinks at me, smug as hell. I blow into my cupped hands, but the warmth disappears before it even touches my fingers. My gloves are buried somewhere in my bag. Brilliant move, Em. Brilliant.
Wasn’t supposed to be this cold though… was it? No. Of course not. If I’d known, I would have packed all my sweaters and winter gear instead of my old, threadbare standbys. Maybe I would’ve booked a completely different kind of retreat, like one with cocktails and cabanas.
Why did you think an isolated cabin in the woods was a good idea, Emma? I could be finishing my book on a tropical island, toes buried in sun-warmed sand, sipping mojitos between chapters. They have Wi-Fi there, too, last I checked.
But no, I wanted ambience. I wanted “aesthetic.” A lone cabin with a postcard mountain backdrop, the snow so soft it looked painted on, the horizon stretching away in cinematic beauty.
In my fantasy, I was curled up under a blanket by a roaring fire, tea at my elbow, the words pouring effortlessly from me, the kind of writing that would gut you in the best way. Raw, unflinching, unforgettable. Reality though?
Hollow-eyed. Running on wine and too much coffee, nursing heartbreak and anger in alternating waves. Nerves fried down to a frayed wire. Deadline beating down my door and a rising sense of desperation that’s threatening my sleep. And now—locked out.
I try again, willing the keypad to just cooperate.
One… eight… five… seven.
Wrong again.
For some reason, I cling to it like it’s a sign. 1847—the year Wuthering Heights, my father’s favorite book, was published. My almost namesake making literary history. Surely that means something.
It doesn’t. The box blinks its mechanical no at me.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” I mutter, digging out my phone. My hair whips across my face, caught in a gust sharp enough to slice through my coat. I scroll to the email, still open on my phone, my eyes squinting against the wind.
One… eight… five… six.
I just stare at it for a second, the realization dripping slow and humiliating. Maybe I do need reading glasses. Or maybe this is what happens when you’ve been hunched over a laptop for weeks on end. Or maybe I’m just plain exhausted. Sleep—what a concept.
I punch in the correct code. This time, there’s a green flash and a satisfying click, followed by blessed entry. The wind practically shoves me over the threshold, and I stumble inside, my heart giving a small, startled lurch.
It’s… beautiful.
Not just “nice” beautiful but breathtaking, in that quiet, unexpected way. Wide-plank wooden floors, honey-golden walls, and a fireplace that looks big enough to swallow me whole. It smells like Christmas in here, and I quickly realize why—a small pine is nestled in the corner in a tree stand, decorated with only a few strings of lights and a red ribbon, reminding me that Christmas is only a week away. A rustic basket of cinnamon-scented pine cones sits on the mantle, large boughs of greenery the only decorations.
I take a deep breath in. It’s lovely.
“Oh my gosh.” I exhale, letting my backpack slide from my shoulder. I wince at the dull thunk of my laptop hitting the floor. Still, I can’t stop looking around. My chest feels strange—like something heavy has shifted, just slightly.
I haven’t felt happy in months.
Not since I found those pink lace panties in the laundry that were definitely not mine.
Not since I drained a bottle of vodka waiting for my husband to come home, and then threw it at his head when he finally did.
Not since he stood there, calm and collected, and said he hadn’t loved me in years. That he’d been having an affair for the entirety of our marriage.
I press my lips together, hard, to keep the tears from spilling over. My throat burns. I force myself to look at the cabin instead.
This is for new Emma, I tell myself, the Emma who is going to figure herself out again.
Except… the cabin screams couples retreat. The enormous king bed piled high with pillows. The romantic throw blankets. The large stone fireplace with a rug in front that looks suspiciously perfect for, well, lying on… among other things. And to top it all off, tree-shaped chocolates wrapped in red and green foil on the pillows.
Fabulous.
Still, credit where it’s due—someone hauled themselves all the way out here just to leave chocolates. I drop onto the bed, toe off my boots, and eat both in one bite, barely chewing. I can’t even remember the last real meal I had.
The chocolate melts, silky and sweet. I’ve always been a chocolate girl.
Chocolate doesn’t lie. Chocolate doesn’t fuck a stranger in your own bed and leave someone’s slutty panties for you to find. Chocolate is loyal.
I stare at the empty wrappers and sigh. Should’ve saved one.