**Chapter 3: Snowed In**

Morning doesn't so much arrive as it does seep. A pale, diffused gray light bleeds through the frost-rimed window, painting the ceiling in muted tones. My first conscious thought is that the mattress is too soft. My second is that there is a heavy, solid weight pressed against my back. My third is that the weight has a heartbeat.

It thumps. Slow. Steady. Familiar.

I go perfectly still. The sheets are tangled around my legs, kicked to the footboard sometime in the night. Drake's arm is draped over my waist, his palm splayed just below my ribs, fingers curled into the thin cotton of my tank top. His breath ghosts against the back of my neck, warm and even. I can feel the ridge of his collarbone where his shoulder presses into my spine. The scent of him—cedar, soap, and something distinctly masculine—fills my lungs, grounding and maddening all at once.

We're still wearing yesterday's clothes. His jeans are unbuttoned, his boxers riding low on his hips. I'm in my underwear and a camisole that's ridden up to my stomach. We fell asleep tangled together. Again. After what happened last night.

My stomach flips. Not from fear. From want.

I shift slightly, trying to breathe without pressing against him, but he groans in his sleep, his arm tightening instinctively. A low, rough sound vibrates through his chest and into mine. I freeze. His breathing hitches. Then, slowly, his eyes open.

For a second, there's only confusion. Military-grade stillness. The kind that makes my pulse jump. Then recognition dawns, and his jaw locks. He doesn't move. Neither do I. The silence stretches, thick and electric, broken only by the howl of wind against the eaves.

"Holly." His voice is gravel. Sleep-rough, but clipped. Guarded.

"Morning," I whisper, because my throat feels tight and I don't trust myself to say anything else.

He exhales through his nose, a long, controlled breath. "Yeah. Morning."

He doesn't let go. Doesn't pull away. Just stares at the frost on the window, his profile sharp in the dim light. I can see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his throat works as he swallows. This is Drake. Always holding back. Always calculating the next move, the next layer of armor to put up. Stepbrother. Ex-Marine. The man who's been my anchor and my storm since the day our parents signed the marriage certificates.

I turn my head slightly on the pillow, just enough to catch his eye. "Did the roads clear?"

"No." His voice is flat. "Avalanche risk. County's closed the pass. We're stuck."

"Stuck how long?"

"Until the snow stops. Or the trucks can get through. Maybe two days. Maybe three."

Three days. In this cabin. With him. In this bed.

My heart does a traitorous little skip. He notices. Of course he does. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers for a fraction of a second too long, then snaps back to the window. The shift is subtle, but I catch it. The way his fingers flex against my waist. The way his breathing changes, just slightly.

"Well," I say, forcing lightness into my voice, trying to coax that sun-drenched warmth out from under his gruff exterior. "Good thing we have that big, cozy bed."

His jaw tightens. "It's not cozy. It's a single mattress on a frame that's seen better decades."

"I think it's fine." I shift again, deliberately this time, rolling onto my side to face him. He doesn't pull away, but his muscles go rigid. Up close, I can see the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble shadowing his strong jaw, the way his dark hair sticks up in chaotic directions. He looks exhausted. And utterly, infuriatingly handsome.

"You should get up," he says, voice low. "You'll be cold."

"I'm not cold." And I'm not. The sheets are warm. He's warm. His body is a furnace wrapped in worn cotton and leather-soft skin. I reach up, tentatively, and brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead. His eyes darken. A muscle feathers in his cheek.

"Don't," he murmurs.

"Why not?" I whisper back.

He doesn't answer. He just stares at me, and the air between us crackles. I can feel the weight of every unsaid word, every boundary we've both been carefully maintaining for years. The line we drew when our families merged. The promise we made to keep it platonic, to keep it safe, to keep it from ruining everything.

We broke it last night.

And waking up like this, tangled and breathless and undeniably awake, makes it feel less like a mistake and more like an inevitability.

He finally moves. Slowly, with the careful precision of a man who's spent his life controlling his own body, he slides his arm from my waist and sits up. The movement pulls the sheet down, exposing the hard planes of his chest, the faded scar that cuts through his left pectoral, the dark line of hair trailing down toward his waistband. I look away, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed I feel in my thin camisole.

"Coffee's in the pot," he says, voice back to its usual gruff cadence. "I'll check the generator."

"Drake."

He stops. Doesn't turn around. "Yeah."

"If we're stuck," I say, sitting up and pulling the sheet around me, "we might need all the hot water we can get."

He glances back at me over his shoulder. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes flick down to my shoulders, then back up. "The tank's on its last legs. We'll need to conserve."

"Then we'll shower together."

The words hang in the air before I even realize I've said them. My cheeks burn. He doesn't move for a long moment. Then he turns fully, his gaze locking onto mine. There's a storm in his eyes. Not the kind outside. The kind that's been brewing for years, simmering under layers of restraint and duty and brotherly loyalty that's rapidly turning into something else.

"Together?" he repeats, voice dangerously low.

"To save the water," I clarify, trying to keep my tone light, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "The lines are frozen. If we run separate showers, the tank won't make it through the day. We'll end up freezing anyway."

It's a logical argument. A practical one. But we both know it's not the whole truth.

He studies me. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away. I'm Holly. I've never been good at playing hard to get. I've never been good at pretending I don't want what I want. And right now, I want him. I want the rough hands, the gruff murmurs, the way he looks at me like I'm both a problem and a solution.

His jaw works. He curses under his breath, a quiet, frustrated sound that does absolutely nothing to hide the way his pupils dilate. "Fine."

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, standing to his full height. Six-four of lean muscle, military posture, and restrained hunger. He doesn't look at me as he walks toward the door, but I see the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands clench at his sides. He's fighting it. Or pretending to.

I follow him down the hall, barefoot on the cold wooden floor. The cabin is quiet except for the wind and the occasional groan of timber settling under the weight of the snow. The bathroom is at the end of the hall, small and utilitarian. White tile, chipped at the grout. A mirror fogged at the edges. A shower stall that's barely big enough for one person, let alone two.

Drake flips the switch. The light buzzes on, harsh and clinical. He turns the shower handle. Water hisses through the pipes. Then it clicks off.

"Pressure's dropping," he mutters, already pulling off his shirt. The fabric catches on his chest, revealing the hard lines of his abdomen, the dark hair trailing down, the scar on his side from a combat deployment I only know about through his carefully edited stories. He doesn't rush. He never rushes. Even when he's unraveling, he moves with deliberate control.

He steps out of his jeans and boxers, kicking them aside. I watch him, my mouth suddenly dry. He turns to me, water already running in the shower. "You want in, or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty all morning?"

The casual crude edge to his voice makes my toes curl. I smile, slow and deliberate. "Just admiring the view, soldier."

He huffs, a sound that's almost a laugh. Almost. He steps back, holding the shower door open. "Get in. Before I change my mind."

I don't hesitate. I peel off my camisole and underwear, stepping into the stall. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet. The water is already running, steaming in the confined space. I turn the handle to adjust the temperature. Drake steps in behind me, close enough that his chest brushes my back. The contrast hits me instantly: his heat, the rough scrape of his skin against mine, the way his breath catches when I lean back against him.

"Water's decent," he murmurs against my ear. "Tank's got maybe twenty minutes before it runs cold."

"I don't care," I say, turning in his arms. He follows, stepping between my knees, his hands bracing on the shower wall on either side of my head. The water cascades over us, hot and heavy, soaking through our hair, tracing paths down our skin. Steam fills the small space, wrapping us in a thick, humid cocoon.

His eyes are dark, blown wide with want. He reaches out, cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "You sure about this?" he asks, voice rough. "Once we start, I'm not stopping. You know how I am when I lose focus."

"I know," I whisper. "That's why I'm here."

He groans, low and visceral, and crushes his mouth to mine.

The kiss isn't gentle. It's hungry. Desperate. A release of months of restraint, of stolen glances and careful distance and brotherly pretense. His lips are firm, demanding, but when I open for him, he softens. Just for a second. Just enough to let me taste the coffee on his breath, the mint of his toothpaste, the raw, unfiltered want beneath it all. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against my stomach. He groans again, his hands sliding down to grip my hips, fingers digging into my skin.

The water beats down on us, hot and relentless. I break the kiss just long enough to reach for the soap. A bottle of cheap cedar-scented gel sits on the edge of the tub. I pour a generous amount into my palm, then press my soapy hands to his chest. He shivers as the slick glide over his skin, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. I trace the scar on his pectoral, then his abdomen, feeling the hard muscle flex under my touch. He grabs my wrists, pulling my hands away from his body and pinning them above my head with one hand. His grip is firm, but not painful. Controlled. Always controlled. Except when I push him past the edge.

"You're playing with fire, Holly," he warns, voice dark.

"I like the burn," I whisper back.

His mouth crashes down on mine again, swallowing my words. His free hand slides down to my ass, squeezing hard, lifting me just enough so my legs wrap around his waist. I gasp into his mouth as his bare skin meets my inner thighs, the heat of him searing against my cold feet. He steps back, pressing me against the wet tile. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, but he catches me, one arm locked around my back, the other still pinning my wrists. His hip grinds against mine, and I can feel exactly how hard he is, how badly he wants me.

I break the kiss, breathing heavily. "Drake—"

"Tell me to stop," he growls. "Tell me to put you down and walk out. Right now."

I smile, bright and unapologetic. "I could never."

His eyes flash. He drops his mouth to my neck, biting down on the sensitive skin just below my ear. I cry out, arching into him. His hands move, sliding down my back, under the water, tracing the curve of my spine. He finds my clit through my soaked skin, pressing a firm circle. I gasp, my hips bucking instinctively. He does it again, slower, harder. My head falls back against the tile. The water pours over us, hot and heavy, but I'm already burning from the inside out.

"Look at me," he commands.

I force my eyes open. His gaze is locked onto mine, dark and intense, stripped of all his usual armor. He's not the stepbrother. He's not the ex-Marine. He's just a man who's been starving for me, and he's done pretending.

He circles my clit again, adding pressure with his thumb. I whimper, my fingers curling against his forearm. "Please," I breathe.

"Please what?" he murmurs, voice rough. "Please fuck you? Please take you against the shower wall? Please make you come so hard you forget your own name?"

"Please," I whisper, "all of it."

He doesn't hesitate. He shifts his hand, slipping two fingers inside me through my soaked skin, curving them upward. I gasp, my back arching. He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. His thrusts are steady, deliberate, hitting that sweet spot with ruthless precision. The water pounds down on us, steam rising in thick clouds. His other hand releases my wrists, only to slide down and wrap around my neck, his thumb stroking my pulse point. The combination is overwhelming. Heat. Pressure. His mouth on my collarbone. His fingers working me. The way his eyes never leave mine.

"I'm close," I gasp. "Drake, I'm—"

"Come," he orders. "Let go."

And I do. The wave hits me like a tidal force, ripping through me, leaving me trembling and breathless. My hips buck against his hand, my mouth open in a silent cry. He doesn't stop. He keeps working me through the aftershocks, his grip tightening on my neck just enough to make me gasp. I cling to him, my legs shaking, my heart hammering against my ribs.

When I finally come down, panting and dazed, he doesn't let me rest. He pulls his fingers out, only to guide my hand down to his cock. It's thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. I wrap my fingers around him, stroking slowly. He groans, his head falling back against the tile. "Take it," he rasps. "I'm not waiting anymore."

He turns me around, pressing my stomach against the wet tile. The cold surface shocks me for a second before the water warms it. He steps in behind me, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle. He doesn't bother with lube. He doesn't need it. The water slicks us both down, and when he pushes into me, I cry out. It's too much. Too big, too deep, too perfect. He stills for a moment, his forehead resting against my shoulder, breathing heavily.

"Breatth through it," he murmurs, voice rough. "I've got you."

I do. I focus on his hands on my hips, the way he holds me like I'm something precious and something he's determined to claim. Then he starts to move. Slow at first, then harder. The shower rattles against the wall. The water splashes. I moan, my hands gripping the tile. He sets a rhythm that's brutal and perfect, each thrust hitting deep, grinding against my clit with every withdrawal. I can feel him twitching, his control fraying.

"Drake," I gasp. "I need—"

"I know," he growls. "I know. Let go."

He angles his hips, hitting that spot again and again. My vision whites out. My knees buckle, but his hands hold me up. He's inside me, filling me, claiming me. The water runs hot, then suddenly changes. The temperature drops. The steam thins. The pipes groan.

"Tank's empty," he mutters, not stopping. "I don't care."

He doesn't slow. If anything, he goes harder. The cold water shocks us both, but I don't care. I'm lost in him, in the rhythm, in the raw, unfiltered connection that's been building for years. He grabs my hair, tilting my head back, and bites my shoulder. I scream into my arm as he comes, his body going rigid, his cock pulsing deep inside me. He follows me over the edge a second later, groaning my name like a prayer, his hips stuttering as he empties himself into me.

We stay like that for a long moment. Breathing. Shaking. The water runs cold, dripping from our skin. The silence in the cabin is broken only by the wind outside and our ragged breathing.

Finally, he pulls out. I turn around, my legs trembling. He catches me, holding me against his chest. His forehead rests against mine. His breathing is still uneven.

"Well," I whisper, smiling despite myself. "That was efficient."

He huffs, a rough sound that's almost a laugh. "Don't push it, sunshine."

I look up at him, my heart full. "I like the way you talk when you're done pretending."

His eyes darken. He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I'm done pretending."

The shower drips. The water is ice-cold now, but we don't move. We just stand there, wrapped in steam and the aftermath, listening to the storm howl outside. The roads are still closed. The power flickers once, then steadies. We're still stuck. But something has shifted. The line we drew is gone. Buried under snow and water and truth.

Drake finally steps back, grabbing a towel. He hands me one. I wrap it around myself, shivering slightly from the cold water. He does the same, his movements still deliberate, but softer now. Less guarded. He looks at me, really looks at me, and for the first time, I don't see the brother. I see the man who's been waiting.

"Two more days," he says quietly.

"I know," I say.

He nods. "We'll figure it out."

"We already did." I smile, bright and unapologetic. "Now help me dry off before I freeze to death."

He shakes his head, but there's no real annoyance in it. Just the ghost of a smirk, hidden but there. "Yeah. Okay."

He reaches for the door, then stops. Looks back at me. "Holly."

"Yes?"

"Next time," he says, voice low, "I'm taking you against the wall before the water even runs."

I grin. "Noted."

He huffs, steps out into the hall. I follow, barefoot and shivering, but warm all the way through. The storm rages on outside, but in here, in the cabin with him, everything feels exactly where it's supposed to be. Stuck. Together. Unavoidable.

And for the first time, I don't want to be anywhere else.