Page 1 of Unwrap Me After Dark
1
Liam
I SHOULD HAVE FAKED my death before agreeing to this.
Maybe there’s still time. I could crash my car into the lake instead of driving up this gravel driveway.
Dread pools in my stomach like cement, heavy and cold despite the warm June air streaming through my half-open window. The expanse of water stretches out before me, mocking me with its serenity. This beauty means nothing—it’s just the gilded frame around what’s going to be seven days of pure hell.
The tires crunch to a halt, and I kill the engine, sitting in silence for a moment. Birdsong filters in, along with the chorus of insects. Peaceful. Tranquil. Deceptive. I check my phone one last time, hoping for a message from my mother saying this whole thing is called off. Nothing.
“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving open the car door.
The air smells of pine and sun-warmed wood as I step out, stretching my cramped limbs after the three-hour drive. The cabin looms before me—rustic with its dark timber walls and wraparound porch, windows glinting in the afternoon light. Itwould be charming under any other circumstances. Right now, it just looks like a prison.
This whole trip was Mom’s idea. She found this place online and thought it was perfect for the purpose. The cabin is remote, the nearest town a twenty-minute drive away. It’s so that I can focus on why I’m here.
I grab my duffel from the trunk and trudge up to the porch. A small metal key box hangs beside the front door. I pull up Mom’s text and punch in the code. The box clicks, revealing the key nestled inside.
The door swings open with a creak, releasing the scent of wood and dust. I enter the cabin, letting my bag drop to the floor with a thud. My eyes adjust to the dimmer light as I take in my surroundings—an open-concept living area with worn but comfortable-looking furniture clustered around a massive stone fireplace. The kitchen is visible beyond, with its wooden countertops and exposed shelving.
But it’s the hallway that catches my attention—the one that must lead to the bedrooms. Without hesitation, I grab my bag and march down it, examining my options. The first room I pass is small with twin beds. Definitely not. The next door opens to reveal a large bedroom with a queen-sized bed, ensuite bathroom, and windows overlooking the lake.
“Mine,” I declare to the empty room, tossing my bag onto the bed.
I move to the window, staring out at the glittering lake. A dock extends from the property, weathered gray wood leading to a small platform where I can make out an upturned canoe. Under different circumstances, this place might be relaxing. Butrelaxation is impossible when you’re about to be locked in with the person you hate most in the world.
Tyler Murphy. My stepbrother. The bane of my existence for the past six years.
I pace the room, fingers drumming against my thigh. I’ve avoided Tyler successfully since I started college two years ago, limiting our interaction to stilted holiday dinners and the occasional family event. But now our parents have forced this reconciliation on us.
“Fix your relationship,” my mother had said. “Your stepfather and I are renewing our vows in August, and I refuse to have you two glaring at each other across the aisle.”
I wonder if she realizes she’s throwing gasoline and matches into the same room.
I continue my circuit of the cabin, noting the bookshelf filled with aging paperbacks, the board games stacked in a corner cupboard, the collection of fishing gear near the back door. All these wholesome activities we’re supposed to bond over. As if that’d ever happen.
The rumble of an engine interrupts my thoughts. My stomach clenches as if I’ve swallowed a stone. I move to the front window, peering out through the glass. A sleek black car—too flashy and impractical for these gravel roads—rolls up the driveway, dust billowing behind it.
I hold my breath as the car stops. The driver’s door swings open, and there he is.
Tyler steps out into the sunlight, stretching his arms over his head like a cat waking from a nap. The motion pulls his white t-shirt up, revealing tanned skin and the hard ridges of his abs. Helooks like the college athlete he is—all sculpted muscle and calm confidence. His light brown hair catches the sun, giving him a golden halo he doesn’t deserve.
I hate everything about him. The way he moves like he’s the center of the universe. How he never seems to doubt himself. And the way his dark brown eyes scan the property, missing nothing—including me, standing at the window like a deer caught in headlights.
His eyes lock with mine through the glass. That infuriating smirk I know too well spreads across his face. He raises one hand in a mocking wave.
I step back from the window, heat rising to my cheeks. Not embarrassment—anger. Always anger when it comes to Tyler. I move to the door, determined not to look like I’m hiding from him. Better to face this head-on and establish boundaries immediately.
By the time I reach the porch, Tyler’s already grabbed his duffel from the trunk. He saunters toward the cabin, his stride loose and confident.
“Miss me, baby bro?” he calls out, voice dripping with amusement.
The nickname sends a familiar flash of irritation through me. “Don’t call me that.”
It’s been years since we lived under the same roof, but my body still reacts on instinct—tensing, bracing, waiting for whatever game he wants to play this time. He was relentless when we were teenagers. When I was sixteen, he would shove me against lockers, tease me in front of his friends, twist my wrist behind my back. It was never enough to leave bruisesor really hurt me. But sufficient to remind me I was smaller, weaker. To make my stomach knot with humiliation. And now, he’s here, in my space again, and nothing’s changed.
Tyler chuckles, climbing the steps to stand across from me. Up close, he smells like rhubarb, and sandalwood, and the lingering scent of his car’s leather interior. He’s taller than me by a couple of inches—a fact he never lets me forget.
