Killing snow, p.1
Killing Snow, page 1
Killing Snow
Maree Rose
Maree Rose Publishing
Killing Snow
by Maree Rose
Copyright © 2023 by Maree Rose
All rights reserved
First Edition: December 2023
Published by Maree Rose
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means without prior permission of the author, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents (outside of those clearly in the public domain) are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Foreword
Hello readers!
Thank you so much for choosing up my book!
Please be aware that this book is a reverse harem romance, meaning our leading lady Everly will not have to choose between her men, because #whychoose.
Warning, this book is a dark contemporary romance. It contains very explicit 18+ dark, sexual content, and straight-up smut.
The male leads are not prince charming, they are the opposite with psycho tendencies and therefore there is stalking, obsessive and possessive behavior, unaliving people, and lots of dark and twisted content. All the characters are 18+
Proceed at your own risk…
Thank you and I hope that you enjoy Killing Snow.
Content Warnings
If you don't have any triggers and feel like taking a gamble on the content then just skip the next page completely.
For those who do need to check the warnings then they are listed on the next page for your reference.
Content Warnings
Please be mindful of triggers when going into this story…
Age gap (they are 32, she is 22)
Mention of rape
Physical Abuse/Assault
Graphic Violence
Blood/Gore
Emotional Torture
Physical Torture
Abduction
Mutilation
Cutting/Marking/Scarification
Murder
Revenge
Blood Play
Explicit Language
Explicit Sex Scenes incl rough sex scenes, DP and DVP
Sex near a dead body
Mentioned murder of a parent
Obsessive behaviour
Mutual Masturbation
Note: One of the male characters within this story has Alexithymia which is a problem with feeling emotions. This is mentioned briefly as part of the story but not given a name. This will be discussed in more detail within the full length re-release.
Apologies if I missed any, please reach out to me on social media if that is the case.
To all the broken beauties that want to
embrace their inner badass bitch…
and have three handsome
psycho's join the fun…
Chapter 1
Everly
He's drunk again. I can already hear it in the heavy, uneven footsteps as he returns to the cabin, the sound reverberating through the wooden walls like a menacing drumbeat.
Is he drunk enough to keep his hands to himself? That's the million-dollar question, though if I had a million dollars, I certainly wouldn't fucking be here, chained by my ankle to this grim reality..
There's always a fine line that dictates how he'll assault me when he's drunk. I can only hope he is too drunk to get it up, which means the abuse would only be physical and not sexual.
For the past few months, I've been granted a reprieve. And now being dragged away to this secluded cabin surrounded by nothing but trees and snow seems to provide him with a little peace of mind. After all, there's no one here for me to befriend.
Or for me to spread my legs for, like the slut he claims I am.
The truth is, after he raped me a few times, I tried to reclaim some semblance of power, mentally and over my own body. He somehow knew exactly where I was and dragged me physically from the guy’s bed, back to his dark world of control.
There was a time, though, a brief, shining moment, when I knew what it felt like to enjoy sex. But that moment of bliss was quickly shattered, replaced by the suffocating grip of captivity.
It is the last time I knew what it felt like to be free.
Ever since then, when I'm not chained to the steel hook he installed in my room, I'm relegated to serving him—cooking his meals, cleaning the house—under his dark, watchful gaze. He even ripped away my chance at education, withdrawing me from college. Not that he ever allowed me to return to campus, but seeing the confirmation of my withdrawal on his desk was a cruel reminder of the life he's stolen from me.
I flinch as the door creaks open, announcing his return. The pungent stench of alcohol precedes him, filling the room with its sickly-sweet odor. He stumbles in, his words slurred in a drunken, incomprehensible ramble. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, not daring to make eye contact. No matter if he is drunk or sober, making eye contact is an act of defiance in his eyes.
Fumbling with the keys, he eventually unlocks the chain binding me to the steel hook in the corner of the room. The metallic clink of the chain hitting the floor offers a fleeting sense of relief. Maybe tonight will be different. Maybe he's too drunk to do more than inflict physical pain.
But my relief is short-lived as he grabs my arm roughly, dragging me out of the dimly lit room and into the narrow corridor. His grip is like a vice, his fingers digging into my skin, leaving behind painful bruises. The cold floor beneath my bare feet sends shivers up my spine as I struggle to keep pace with him.
"Cook for me," he slurs, shoving me toward the stove. I don't need further instructions; I know the routine all too well. As I begin preparing a meal, I try to focus on the task at hand, blocking out the looming presence of the man behind me.
Chopping and stirring, I steal a glance at him. His glazed eyes and sluggish movements betray his intoxicated state. Relief washes over me momentarily; tonight, it seems, he's too drunk to do anything beyond the mundane demands of food like a caveman.
His attention wanders, his mutterings growing more disjointed as he sways on his feet. Seizing the opportunity, I subtly scan the room for an escape route or any sign of help, but the isolated cabin offers nothing. The snow-covered landscape outside the windows mock me in my desperation.
The sizzling sound from the pan brings me back to the present. He slumps into a chair, seemingly disinterested in anything but the alcohol coursing through his veins. I serve his meal in silence, hoping it will satisfy him. But my hopes are dashed when he spits out his displeasure, his drunken anger palpable in the air.
"What the hell is this shit?" he bellows, his eyes glaring at the plate I placed in front of him.
"I... It's... something to eat," I mumble, trying to keep my voice steady. But his dissatisfaction hangs heavy in the air, like a storm on the horizon.
Fists slam against the table, making me jump. "Don't give me that crap! What did you put in here?" he growls, his face turning a dangerous shade of red.
"Just ingredients I found in the kitchen," I reply, my heart racing. I can't afford to provoke him, not now.
Unsatisfied with my response, he snarls and grabs the hot plate of food, hurling it toward me without warning. The scalding contents splatter across my chest, the searing pain almost unbearable. I stifle a cry, gritting my teeth against the agony.
"What kind of garbage did you make?" he roars, looming over me with fury in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whimper, tears welling in my eyes. But I know better than to fight back, to resist. Survival means enduring the storm until it passes.
His hand swings, a brutal backhand connecting with my cheek. I collapse to the floor, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. I lie there, dazed and broken, as he unleashes his rage upon me.
The hits keep coming—kicks, punches, a relentless onslaught. I curl into myself, trying to shield my body from the blows, my mind a whirlwind of pain and desperation. And in that haze of agony, a realization dawns on me—he may be too drunk to rape me, but he's also too drunk to stop hitting me.
Summoning every ounce of strength left in my battered body, I drag myself toward the counter. As he paces away for a moment, raving about what a stupid cunt I am, I force myself to get to my knees and then push past the pain to get to my feet. I refuse to die by lying down at his feet. My hands fumble, searching for something, anything, to defend myself. And there it is—the frying pan.
He looms over me, consumed by his drunken rage, unaware of my feeble attempt at defense. Gripping the frying pan with trembling hands, I swing it with all the energy I can muster. The metallic whoosh cuts through the air as the pan connects with the side of his head.
For a moment, time seems to freeze. He stumbles backward, a look of bewilderment crossing his face. My heart pounds in my ears as I stare at the man who has taken everything from me, now swaying unsteadily on his feet.
I can't believe it when he slumps to the floor, unresponsive. The room falls into an eerie silence, broken only by my ragged breaths and the distant howl of the wind outside. He lies there, a crumpled heap, a stark contrast to the terror he has instilled in me for so long.
With pain shooting through every inch of my body, I stumble toward the door, leaving a trail of blood on the cold floor. The freedom I lost so long ago seems within reach.
The snow-covere d landscape outside mocks me once again, but this time, it holds a promise of escape. Every step through the thick snow is an agonizing effort, but the pain is nothing compared to the pain in my soul.
As I trudge through the snow, battered and broken, the echoes of his drunken rage fading into the distance, but not from my mind, the memory of his voice still haunting me like a relentless ghost. I don’t know where I am going, but anywhere has to be better than what I am leaving behind.
My body struggles against the biting cold, every step through the thick snow an agonizing effort. Each movement feels like pushing against a wall of ice, the biting wind cutting through my tattered clothes like a thousand knives. The pain is overwhelming, but I don’t care. I don’t care if I make it to safety or if I collapse in the freezing wilderness. All I want is to be far away from him.
Memories flood my mind, tracing back to a time when my life was normal, when laughter with friends filled the air and the future felt full of possibilities. I was just an average teenager, navigating the ups and downs of adolescence. But then, my mother passed away, leaving me vulnerable to the clutches of a monster disguised as my stepfather.
He twisted my life into a nightmare, forcing me to take my mother's place not just around the house, but in the most horrifying and degrading ways imaginable. The abuse eroded my sense of self, shattering the innocence of my youth until there was nothing left but fear and pain.
As I trudge through the snow, each step feels like dragging the weight of my past behind me like an anchor, the burden of his cruelty pressing down on my shoulders. But with each step, I struggle to keep moving forward, driven by a desperate need to escape the hell I have been living.
The snow-covered landscape stretches endlessly before me, a vast expanse of white that seems to go on forever. It's a blank canvas of both despair and hope, each blood stained footprint I leave behind a testament to the brutality I have endured. But somewhere in that desolate landscape, I hope to find a sliver of freedom.
With each step, my strength wanes, and my surroundings blur into a hazy abyss. The snow becomes a merciless adversary, swallowing me whole, the cold seeping through my clothes like icy tendrils, numbing my limbs and stealing the warmth from my body.
In the midst of my struggle, a flicker of movement catches the edge of my fading vision, a shadow dancing on the periphery of consciousness. I strain to focus, but the exhaustion is overwhelming, like trying to grasp at smoke with trembling hands. For all I know, it could be a trick of the light, a figment of my delirium, but at this point, I’m not sure I care.
Desperation propels me forward, my legs heavy as I push through the snow, each step a battle against the elements and the darkness threatening to consume me. But with every movement, I feel my strength slipping away, until I can no longer stand and collapse into the icy embrace of the snow.
I try to rise, clawing at the frozen ground, but the strength has drained from my body like water through fingers, leaving me weak and helpless. The bitter cold now feels like it is bone deep, and I shiver uncontrollably, my whole body numb to the core.
As my vision dims further, I glimpse movement again, closer this time, a presence hovering above me. The world becomes a distant echo, but I still sense someone bending down, reaching out to me in the darkness. My eyes flutter, trying to focus, but the last dregs of consciousness slip away.
In that fleeting moment, I accept the inevitability of my fate, ready to let go of the pain and fear that have consumed me for far too long. The shadows above me blur into the obscurity of unconsciousness, and I welcome the unknown, hoping for a peace that eluded me in life.
Chapter 2
Killian
The landscape stretches before me, a desolate canvas painted in shades of white and gray. The bitter wind bites at my exposed skin, carrying with it the eerie silence of the winter wilderness. It's in this stark setting that I stumble upon her, a fragile figure barely discernible against the snow-covered ground.
The shadow of her movement catches my eye, drawing me closer. As I approach, the haunting beauty of her appearance strikes me—her skin, pale as moonlight, is marred by bruises, blood, and the telltale bluish tint of hypothermia on her lips. She resembles a snow angel fallen from grace, yet there's nothing angelic about the state she's in.
Without hesitation, I rush to her side, feeling the cold seeping through my own clothes as I lift her from the freezing ground. She's limp in my arms, her battered body disturbingly light making it easy to hold her above the snow.
The journey to our cabin feels endless, each step a battle against the biting cold and howling wind. Finally, we burst through the door, my voice echoing through the wooden walls as I call out to my companions. Concern etches their faces as they take in the sight of the unconscious girl in my arms.
"What the fuck?" Damon's voice cuts through the tension as he inspects her injuries.
Ignoring him, I make my way to the room I use and gently lay her on my bed. It's then that the full extent of her injuries becomes painfully clear—bruises, blood, and cuts adorn her fragile frame, telling a story of unspeakable suffering.
As we work to remove her wet clothes, I am surprised to feel a small sense of helplessness. The cold has taken its toll, her pulse weak and barely discernible beneath my fingertips. We need to act fast to prevent her from slipping away.
Rayth springs into action, fetching blankets and cranking up the electric heating. We know the snowstorm forecasted means our power supply is uncertain, so we use it while we have it.
"She's hypothermic," Rayth observes grimly. "We have to warm her up."
"We need to share body heat," I declare, my voice cutting through the tense atmosphere. "It's the fastest way to warm her."
Damon and Rayth exchange glances, but they don’t offer any objection, understanding the gravity of the situation. There's no room for hesitation; we need to save her life. I begin to strip out of my wet clothes, and Rayth follows suit. Meanwhile, Damon moves to the fireplace in my room and starts to build a fire.
Sliding under the layers of blankets, I carefully position her, rolling her onto her side and curling my body around her back to offer the most skin contact. I adjust my arms when the thought occurs to me that I should be mindful of her injuries. Sliding my arm up the center of her body between her small breasts, I rest my hand at the base of her throat. She is so small that when I slide my other arm under the pillows, the movement barely even jostles her.
Rayth slides in on the other side of her and presses himself to the front of her. His hands move and adjust her until their legs entwine and his hand presses to her hip. His other arm mirrors mine beneath the blankets.
None of us are small men; we are large and our bodies trained to be the deadliest of weapons. We aren’t soft, our edges are sharp like the knives we frequently hold in our hands. The contrast between her vulnerability and our imposing figures is stark. But here, in this moment, we are gentle giants, cradling her with all the tenderness we can muster.
The fragile pulse under my fingertips serves as a lifeline, a connection to a soul teetering on the edge.
As we lay there, enveloped in the warmth we collectively generate, I'm struck by the odd sensation of feeling something other than indifference. Emotions are foreign territory for me, a realm I seldom venture into. Yet, here I am, sharing body heat to save the life of a stranger, something that normally wouldn’t even occur to me. I don’t usually feel anything but ambivalence towards everything and everyone.
The odd sensation of feeling something emotionally grips me. It is unfamiliar, almost unsettling, but it's something almost primal and raw, possessive even. I ponder the connection between this wounded angel in my arms and the stirring of emotions within me. I don’t care who she is or where she came from; the simple fact that she triggers any reaction means that she is mine from that moment.
It isn’t long before the feeling of her body pressed against mine has my cock stirring. I push my body's reaction aside, adjusting until it rests more comfortably against the crease of her ass.
