The wind howled like a living thing outside the remote mountain cabin, driving thick flakes of snow against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I stood in front of the massive stone fireplace, arms crossed tight over my chest, wearing nothing but an oversized cashmere sweater that barely reached mid-thigh and thick wool socks. The heat from the flames licked at my bare legs, but it did nothing to thaw the resentment burning in my stomach.
Marcus Alexander, my new stepfather leaned against the mantel, scotch glass in hand, watching me with those cold, calculating steel-gray eyes. At forty-two, he looked like sin carved into a tailored suit: broad shoulders, sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, and the kind of commanding presence that made boardrooms fall silent. He’d married my mother four months
