The Taste of Winter Citrus Chapter 1

When the power cut out across the estate, I was burrowed beneath two layers of down, dead to the world.

A maid’s sharp gasp down in the foyer was what finally dragged me out of it. With the heavy velvet blackout drapes drawn tight against the glass, the bedroom was steeped in an ink-thick gloom, rendering morning and midnight indistinguishable.

Half-groggy, my lashes stuck together with sleep, I reached blindly toward the nightstand for my phone to check the hour.

Halfway there, my wrist was caught.

A broad, calloused palm closed over mine, fingers wrapping around my knuckles with deliberate weight.

"Who’s—"

A violent jolt of adrenaline shot through my spine. Every nerve screamed awake. I twisted, fighting to throw myself upward, but whoever it was anticipated the pivot. In one fluid, suffocating motion, an arm braced across my collarbone and pressed me flat against the mattress.

A muffled sound tore from my throat as heat descended.

A mouth—firm, desperate, burning—slammed against mine, crushing whatever air was left in my lungs.

It was not a gentle trespass. It was suffocating and frantic, thick with the terrifying gravity of something held back for far too long. And then, as our breaths tangled in the dark, a scent caught in my throat: sandalwood, white cedar, and the clean, sharp ozone of the custom shower wash stocked exclusively in our private bathrooms.

The brand every Harrington in this house used.

My eyes strained wide against the darkness.

What the hell?

Inside my own bedroom, in the middle of a blackout, I was being pinned down and kissed senseless by one of my three older brothers.