The wind doesn't howl. It screams.

It rips through the pine trees like a blade through canvas, throwing fistfuls of snow against the cabin windows until the glass shudders in its frame. I'm wrapped in three blankets, a wool throw, and my thickest cardigan, yet the chill still seeps through the floorboards, up through my bare feet, and settles in my marrow. The generator coughs, sputters, and dies. The furnace's rhythmic hum flatlines. The cabin plunges into a heavy, breathing dark, broken only by the pale blue glow of the storm outside.

I swing my legs over the edge of the couch, the floor biting my skin. "Drake?"

He's already standing in the kitchen doorway. He moved in his sleep. That's his thing. Military efficiency. He doesn't wait for instructions. He just acts. The emergency flashlight beams across his face, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the dark stubble, the flat, unread dark of his eyes. He's wearing sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt that clings to his chest from the earlier exertion of checking the windows. I swallow. He looks like a carved statue brought to life. Grumpy, restless, and impossibly aware of every inch of my body.

"The main line's down," he says, voice rough from disuse and the cold air. "Generator's fried. Probably a blown transformer out on the ridge. Power's gone for the night. Maybe longer."

"How long longer?"

He doesn't answer right away. He just looks at the window, at the white wall swallowing the treeline. "Doesn't matter. The storm's not breaking. Not until at least morning. Maybe tomorrow."

My stomach drops. "So we're stuck here?"

"Yeah." He turns the flashlight off, leaving us in the deep grey-blue of the storm. "Cabin's insulated. We'll lose the heat in a few hours. We need to consolidate."

I already know what he means. I've been avoiding the word, but the air in this cabin is thick with it. We've been living in it since he walked through the door three days ago. Since my mother married him and dragged his ex-military grumpiness into my life. Since he started sleeping on the pull-out couch and I started noticing the way his forearms flex when he reaches for the top shelf. The way his voice drops when he's trying not to smile. The way he watches me when he thinks I'm not looking.

"The bed," I say quietly. "It's the only way."

He nods once. Sharp. Final. "Yeah."

We move through the dark like ghosts. He doesn't turn on the overhead lights. He just follows instinct, his large hand finding the wall, then the doorframe, then my shoulder as I pass. His fingers linger for a fraction of a second against the soft fabric of my nightgown. I stop breathing. He doesn't say anything. He just keeps moving.

The master bedroom is small. Warm from the day's residual heat, but cooling fast. The bed is a double, the kind you'd call a queen if you were feeling generous. We both know it won't fit two people comfortably. But warmth is survival. And survival beats dignity.

He strips down to his boxers without ceremony. Military habit, maybe. Or just a man who doesn't care about modesty when the cold bites this hard. He tosses the shirt onto the chair, runs a hand through his dark hair, and climbs in on his side. I follow, pulling the duvet up to my collarbone, keeping a careful three-foot gap between us. I tell myself it's just space. Just physics. Just the fact that we're technically family, which makes my skin prickle with something far heavier than guilt.

The mattress dips as he shifts. The bed groans. I stare at the ceiling, listening to the wind, listening to his breathing. It's slow. Controlled. I know that breathing. I've seen it in tactical drills, in briefings, in the way he moves through a room like he's measuring distances. He's still in his head. Still calculating. Still trying to hold the line.

I roll onto my side. The duvet slips. The cold air hits my stomach. I pull it back up, but it's pointless. My body is too warm. I'm always too warm. People say I'm like a little sun. My sister says I radiate heat. My mother says I'm impossible to stay mad at. I've never understood why that makes me feel so small right now. Because Drake isn't impossible to stay mad at. He's impossible to stay away from.

His arm is stretched out along the mattress, just inches from my hip. I can feel the heat radiating off him. It's maddening. I shift my leg. The blanket catches. I tug it free, and my knee brushes his thigh.

He goes rigid.

I freeze. "Sorry."

"Don't be." His voice is lower. Rougher. "You're cold."

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit." He turns his head. The moonlight from the window catches the sharp plane of his cheekbone, the dark shadow of his eyes. "You're shivering."

I am. I hadn't realized it until he said it. A fine tremor runs through my arms. The duvet isn't enough. The cabin is an icebox now. The walls are losing the day's warmth. I'm losing the battle against the cold.

He exhales, slow and measured. "Come here."

I blink. "What?"

"Come here, Holly. Before you freeze."

The way he says my name. Not *step-sister*. Not *kid*. Not *you*. Just Holly. Like it's a secret. Like it's a sin. My heart hammers against my ribs. I should say no. I should curl up in my corner and suffer. But the cold is seeping into my bones, and his body is a furnace, and the tension between us has been coiled so tight it's starting to snap.

I slide forward.

The mattress shifts. Our bodies align. I press my back against his chest. He's hard, solid, real. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me flush against him. The duvet settles over us both. The heat is immediate, overwhelming. I sigh. He feels it. His hand tightens on my hip.

"Better?" he murmurs against my hair.

"Much."

He doesn't let go. His palm stays pressed against my stomach, just below my ribs. I can feel his heartbeat. It's fast. Too fast. He's not as calm as he's pretending. I turn my head slightly. His nose brushes my temple. His breath is hot against my skin. I should move. I should give him space. But I don't. I lean back into him. Just an inch. Just enough.

The wind screams outside. The cabin creaks. The cold tries to break through the windows. But in here, in this narrow strip of mattress, there's only heat. Only the weight of him. Only the unbearable awareness of every brush of skin, every shift of muscle, every controlled breath he's trying to keep steady.

I close my eyes. I tell myself it's just warmth. Just practicality. Just the storm. I tell myself a lot of things.

But my body knows the truth.

His fingers trace idle patterns on my stomach. Slow. Deliberate. He's testing me. Or testing himself. I don't pull away. I let my head fall back against his shoulder. I let my eyes stay closed. I let the moment stretch.

Then he shifts. Just slightly. But enough to press his groin against the curve of my ass.

I gasp.

He stops. Goes completely still. "Holly."

His voice is strained. Frayed at the edges. I turn in his arms. He's propped up on one elbow, looking down at me. The moonlight paints his face in silver and shadow. His eyes are dark. Pupil-blown. Raw. He's fighting it. I can see it in the tension in his jaw, the white-knuckle grip on the mattress, the way his chest rises and falls in controlled, shallow breaths. He's holding back. He's always holding back. But the cold is breaking him. The proximity is breaking him. I am breaking him.

"Drake," I whisper.

He doesn't speak. He just looks at me. Like he's memorizing the shape of my mouth. Like he's trying to decide if he's allowed.

I reach up. My fingers brush his jaw. He flinches. Then he leans into my touch. His eyes close. A shaky exhale. When they open, the restraint is gone. Or at least, cracking.

"Tell me to stop," he rasps. "Tell me to roll over. Tell me anything."

I don't. I can't. My hand slides up to his neck. His pulse hammers under my fingers. "Don't," I say. "Please don't."

He breaks.

It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's a dam shattering. His hand comes up, cupping my jaw, and he pulls me into his mouth. His lips are hot, demanding, desperate. I kiss him back like I've been starving for this. Like I've been starving for him. My hands tangle in his hair. His arm wraps around my waist and flips me onto my back. The mattress dips. He's over me in one fluid motion, caging me in. The duvet is kicked aside. The cold air hits our skin, but neither of us cares. Heat is all that matters.

He kisses me like he's been waiting for it. Like he's been starving. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming me, tasting me. I moan into his mouth. He growls. Low. Rough. His hand slides down my back, under my nightgown, and finds my hip. He grips me. Hard. I arch into him. The friction is electric. I'm so wet. I can feel it between my thighs, and I know he can feel it through the thin fabric. He shifts his hips. Groans.

"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "Holly."

"Drake," I whimper. "Please."

He doesn't tease. He doesn't draw it out. He's done pretending. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my nightgown and pulls it up, over my hips, over my chest. I lift my arms without thinking. The fabric falls away. I'm bare beneath him. His eyes darken. He swallows hard. His hand covers my breast, thumb brushing my nipple. I cry out. It's too much. Too sudden. Too perfect.

He leans down, taking my nipple into his mouth. He sucks. Hard. My back arches. The bedframe creaks. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. He grinds against me. I'm soaked. He feels it. He groans again, rough and broken.

"I've wanted you since I got here," he growls against my skin. "Since I walked through that door. Since I saw you. Since I realized how badly I needed you in my bed."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath catches. My chest aches. I pull him closer, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "Then stop talking," I gasp. "Stop thinking. Just take me."

He does.

He splits my thighs wider. His hand slides between them, fingers slipping through my wetness without hesitation. I gasp. He presses two fingers inside me. I'm so tight. He groans, his forehead dropping to my collarbone. I wrap my arms around his neck. I pull him down. I want all of him. I want it now.

"Drake," I beg. "Please."

He pulls his fingers out. I whimper. He doesn't give me time to adjust. He drops his pants. Steps out of them. He's hard. Thick. Aching. I reach for him without thinking. My hand wraps around him. He shudders. A ragged sound tears from his throat.

"Fuck, Holly," he curses. "You're going to kill me."

"Make me," I whisper.

He lines himself up. Presses the tip against me. I'm ready. I'm so ready. He thrusts in. All at once. I cry out. It's too much. Too full. Too deep. He freezes, buried to the hilt, his body trembling. His hands grip my hips like he's holding on for dear life.

"Breathe," he rasps. "Give me a second. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Shut up," I gasp. "Don't you dare stop. I want it. I want you. Push through it. Please."

He obeys. Slowly. Deliberately. He bottoms out. We're joined. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. Breath to breath. He stays still for a long moment. Letting me adjust. Letting us both feel it. The reality of it. The wrongness. The rightness. The sheer, overwhelming need.

Then he moves.

The first thrust is slow. Deep. Drawing out every inch. I gasp. My nails dig into his back. He groans. The second thrust is faster. Harder. The bed groans. The storm screams. The world narrows to this. To him. To the way his body moves against mine. To the way his mouth finds my neck, my jaw, my mouth. He kisses me like he's drowning and I'm the only air. I kiss him back. I match his rhythm. I lift my hips. I take him deeper.

He breaks the pace. Fucks me like he's been holding it in for years. Like he's been starving. Like he's never planning to stop. His hips snap against mine. The friction is unbearable. Good. I like it. I need it. I wrap my legs higher around his waist. I pull him into me. I whisper his name. He growls. His thrusts get rougher. Deeper. Faster. His hand slides up, covering my breast again, thumb circling my nipple. I cry out. My back bows. My eyes roll back.

"Drake," I sob. "I'm close. I'm going to—"

"Let go," he commands. His voice is rough. Shattered. "Let go, Holly. I've got you. I've got you."

I do. I shatter. I break. My orgasm hits like a wave. I cry out. My body clenches around him. I feel him twitch. Feel him groan. Feel him fight it. Fight for control. Fight for me. But he can't. Not anymore. My clenching is too much. His restraint snaps. He thrusts one last time. Buries himself to the hilt. And then he's coming. Hard. Rough. Desperate. He groans my name like a prayer. Like a curse. His body shakes. His grip on my hips turns bruising. I feel every pulse. Every drop. Every broken piece of him falling apart inside me.

We stay like that. Breathless. Trembling. Joined. The storm still rages outside. The cabin is still freezing. But we're burning. We're alive. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest. Can feel his breath on my neck. Can feel the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. I don't pull away. I can't. I don't want to.

He lifts his head slowly. His eyes find mine. Dark. Raw. Stripped bare. He brushes a damp strand of hair from my face. His thumb traces my bottom lip. His voice is wrecked.

"Fuck," he whispers. "I'm sorry. I should have waited. I should have—"

"Don't," I cut in. I cup his jaw. I pull him down. I kiss him. Soft this time. Slow. Sweet. "Don't apologize. I wanted it too. I've wanted it too."

He closes his eyes. Leans into my touch. A shaky exhale. Then his mouth finds mine again. Slower. Deeper. Tender. The roughness is gone. Replaced by something heavier. Something real. His body relaxes. The tension leaves his shoulders. He stays buried inside me. Doesn't pull out. Doesn't move. Just stays. Like he's afraid I'll vanish if he does.

I wrap my arms around him. Hold him. Let him rest. Let me rest. The duvet is tangled around our legs. The cold is creeping back in. But I don't care. I press my lips to his chest. Feel his heart hammering. Feel the sweat cooling on his skin. Feel the reality of what we just did. What we are now.

Step-siblings. Lovers. Trapped in a blizzard. Bound by something neither of us planned.

He shifts. Rolls us onto our sides. Pulls me against his chest. Keeps me pinned. Keeps me close. His arm wraps around my back. His hand rests on my stomach. His breath evens out. He's trying to sleep. Trying to pretend this is normal. Trying to pretend we can go back to the way it was.

But we can't.

I know that. He knows that. The bed is the same. The cabin is the same. The storm is the same. But everything else is different. The air between us is charged. Heavy. Electric. I press my back to his chest. Let my legs fall open. Let him settle between them. Let him keep me. Let him hold me.

His lips brush my shoulder. "Holly."

I turn my head. Look up at him. "Yeah?"

He doesn't answer. Just holds me tighter. Lets his breath ghost over my hair. Lets his hand rest on my hip. Lets his body stay fused with mine.

I close my eyes. Let the storm rage. Let the cold bite. Let the silence stretch. I don't need words. I don't need promises. I just need this. Him. Me. The bed. The dark. The heat.

And the terrible, beautiful truth that I'm never letting go.