Page 37 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
“Go to sleep, Elena.” Final. Commanding. An order from a man who could shatter me without lifting a finger—and knows it. He falls silent, his breathing deepening as he lets sleep take him.
Me?
I lie there in the darkness, wrecked and ruined. Desperate for his touch. Needing the man who refuses to claim me…because I wanted boundaries.
I want to surrender. I just don’t know how.
Chapter 9
The cold emptinessof the bed wakes me before the light does. My hand drifts across the sheets, searching instinctively for warmth that isn’t there.
Dominic is gone.
The storm still rages outside, muffled by thick stone walls and heavy glass, but in here, it’s the absence that claws at me.
The place where he should be.
The space he left me to ache alone.
I press my palm into the cool mattress, swallowing down the ridiculous sting in my chest.
It’s better this way.
Boundaries. Distance. Control.
And still, every part of me aches for the man who isn’t in this bed.
The scent of coffee draws me down the stairs, the rich, dark aroma winding through the house like a trail of smoke.
I dress quickly—another borrowed outfit, Dominic’s clothes still far too large on my frame, but somehow more intimate for it.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks nothing like the polished wine director I was before.
Flushed cheeks. Bright, wild eyes.
A woman stripped bare in every way that matters.
Downstairs, Dominic stands at the kitchen counter, his back to me, broad shoulders framed against the windows. One hand casually measures out coffee grounds. The other braces on the counter, raw power leashed tight beneath every controlled movement.
The sheer normalcy of the scene guts me harder than anything else. This wild, dangerous man making coffee like he hasn’t shattered me with a kiss, with a whisper, with a look.
He doesn’t turn, but somehow, he knows I’m there.
“About last night,” I say, the words rasping out, barely a breath.
It hangs between us like smoke.
“Professional boundaries.” Dominic nods, his face impassive. “Message received.”
“I—just…” I falter, helpless, the words dissolving like ash in my mouth. I want to explain, but I don’t even know what I want anymore.
“You don’t need to explain.” He places the coffee grounds in filter paper and preps the coffee maker. “I got caught up in the moment. The storm. The isolation. The wine. It happens.”
Not to me!
His dismissal should be precisely what I want, but it lands like a blade between my ribs.
“Right. Of course.”
