Little Snowflake: A dark romance novella, page 1
Little Snowflake
A dark romance novella
Esme Lennon
Copyright © 2023 by Esme Lennon
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Esme Lennon Author.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Silver at Bitter Sage Designs
Edited by Ria at Moon and Bloom Editing
ISBN: 9798389576872
First edition 2023
Trigger warnings
This book is intended for adult readers only due to the content included.
Trigger warnings:
Stalking, sexually explicit scenes, mentions of guns, alcohol, talk of car accident, blindfold and mild bondage scenes, dubcon scenes, edging, ice play, mentions of torture, talk of death, anxiety, panic attacks and mention of vomiting.
Those who love to read but are slow as f*ck. I feel you.
Playlist
I’m in Control - AlunaGeorge
God is a woman - Ariana Grande
Don’t Blame Me - Taylor Swift
Desire - MEG MYERS
Power Over Me - Dermot Kennedy
Bom Bidi Bom - Nick Jones & Nicki Minaj
I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE - Måneskin
She - Harry Styles
The Way I Are - Timbaland
Call Out My Name - The Weeknd
Bad Things – Meiko
How Do I Make You Love Me? – The Weeknd
”You call it madness, but I call it love.” – Don Byas
Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
1
Pria
“Have you seen the Haunt and Hunt Funfair is officially being set up in Casamount? I heard it’s scarier and sexier this year.”
My eyes skim over the black and red leaflet for the annual funfair in our neighbouring city that my best friend Savannah passed me. Fear runs through my veins as I notice the clowns and zombies being a selling point of the fair.
“Scarier?” I gulp, sliding the leaflet back over to her.
I sip on Cherry’s Diner’s classic pink drink as I scan the space around me. Modern, with black and white tiled flooring, posters of America’s most famous singers and red and white booths. Cherry’s Diner only employs females, so it’s always a comfort to come here. All staff are dressed in red dresses, the young waitresses wearing a fitted style that moulds to their bodies, while the older staff wear gorgeous red tea dresses. Upbeat fifties music echoes in the background.
“Scarier and more fun,” Savannah winks. She’s always been obsessed with horror. I’m the exact opposite; anything that catches me by surprise makes me jump out my skin. Opposites really do attract in our friendship.
“Fun?” I question, widening my eyes as my brows pull together. “Clowns and chainsaws sound like a nightmare.”
“Your nightmare, maybe, but I live for the thrill.”
My mind bounces back to the scariest night of my life. “Yeah, I know you do, especially after you dragged me into that abandoned house for a Halloween party.” I shake my head in disbelief as the memories of that horrific night swim through my mind again. “Who thought it was a good idea to have a Halloween party in an abandoned house?”
“Mine.” Savannah shrugs, mischief lighting up her delicate features. She flicks her chestnut brown hair over her shoulder as she sips her black coffee. “So was the fake kidnapping drama.”
My jaw falls open as I can only stare wide-eyed at her. “You planned that?”
To think I spent the past four Halloweens hiding at home, because a psycho clown and a guy in a scream mask hauling the pastor’s daughter out kicking and screaming has left me traumatised, and my best friend was the one who planned it all.
“Mmhm,” she nods, like it’s no big deal she scared me shitless four years ago and made my dislike of Halloween into a full blown fear. “The pastor’s daughter was in on it. Actually, she volunteered. Must have some dark romance kink or some shit going on. Everyone else though? They were clueless.” She chuckles to herself. “All of your faces of pure fear, it made my Halloween.”
A mixture of shock and annoyance coat my body as I struggle to close my jaw. “Yeah, and ruined mine for a lifetime.”
“Oh, P, come on. You’re scared of your own shadow. It only takes a leaf blowing past you to make you jump.”
A huff of annoyance leaves my lips as I eye her up and down. As far as her planning went, I’m impressed she was able to pull it off, but I won’t tell her that. She’ll just plan another Halloween experience that’ll put me in an early grave.
“Come on, let's go. I have a fashion show to plan.”
Savannah is the lead planner on the Care for Canines fashion show this year and it’s been taking up all of her free time. I’m not mad though, because home time is always my favourite.
Grabbing my pink drink to go, I make my way home.
Living on the outskirts of a small-town like Charlestown, in a rural area is perfect for me. Not only are my closest neighbours a thousand yards away, but I feel safe living in my late grandparents house. It’s quiet and I don’t see a lot of people, so it feels right living here. My home has a large garden, no one knocks on my door and it’s the house I grew up in.
My grandparents owned a small, retro style house with a white painted exterior and a black roof. A home library sits at the back of the house full of my childhood favourites, along with a large selection of not so child friendly books, a large airy bathroom upstairs that is full of humidity loving plants, a gorgeous large window at the top of the landing area that looks out onto the forest behind the house. The black of the roof is continued throughout the house. Most call my home gothic and creepy, but to me, it’s a place of salvation.
Ever since their passing, I’ve lived in this house alone. It took a bit of getting used to, knowing that I was the only one here, but it soon felt like the safest place I could be. My parents live on the other side of Charlestown, and even though we are on good terms, our relationship could do with some improvements. Especially since my grandparents took on the role of parenting me from a young age. They were the ones who bought my first car, who helped with my homework and who nurtured me while growing up.
My parents weren’t struggling in the money department. They both had great jobs and earned enough to buy designer clothes and materialistic things. They just lacked in the love and caring department. I’m convinced I was an accident, because neither of them has a clue how to parent. It was just a ‘try it and see how it goes’ situation. Sometimes it was letting me sit in front of the TV for hours a day just to keep me quiet. Other times it was giving me cutlery to play with because the metal-on-metal sound made me giggle. My personal favourite is when they put me in my car seat and placed me in the back of a van which had no seats. I spent an hour journey sliding left and right while they sat up front with zero worries. Every birthday was something designer that I had no interest in. I wanted dolls, Lego and a pop-up kitchen. Not a Louis Vuitton coat at aged ten, a Prada bag at aged six and definitely not Louboutin shoes before I could even walk.
My grandparents, on the other hand, gave me everything a child wanted. I had my own toy box at their house filled to the brim with Barbies, cars, colouring pens, and so much more. It was what I imagine the kids' section inside the world's best toy store looked like. They would collect me from school each day, but I’d stay at home with my parents at the weekend. I remember wanting nothing more than to live with my grandparents full time. My parents would refuse every time I asked.
Once the house was passed down to me, I wasted no time leaving my parents' house and moving here.
I don’t think any ghosts live here. Nothing unexplained has ever happened and I think my dog, Bucky, would let me know if he sensed something. He’s my favourite protector. He may be a big Rottweiler, but he’s the sweetest boy. Ashy on the other hand would probably let a serial killer in as long as they gave him food. He’s a typical black cat.
This house is also my workspace, which is why I spend ninety percent of my time here. Working from home as an editor has more perks than cons. I can work in my pyjamas, I have great colleagues (even though they’re fluffy and have four legs), and my hours are flexible. It also stops me from waking up with a weighted dread of having to be social and o utgoing everyday. My introverted ass belongs at home, with no talkative employees, no nightmare bosses and no painful commuting.
And when life gets too much for me, I wander over to the home library that's decorated with book shelves on every wall, an arch window and pastel pink wisteria flowers hanging from the ceiling. Two walls are for romance, and the other two are for fantasy, leaving me with endless options. A large charcoal black couch sits in the centre of the room with a black lamp hooded over the top, a mini fridge to the left, and a table to place any items I need close to hand. Like a warm hug, this room is a safe space. All my problems are left at the door as I get lost in pages and enter a new world.
***
Arriving home to paws tapping me and tongues leaving kisses on my hands and face, I crouch down to greet Bucky before walking over to Ashy to give him a stroke. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, the coolness instantly lighting a flood of goosebumps over my skin. Hearing my own footsteps echo throughout the home, I make my way over to my home library to wind down and have some me time.
Choosing between fantasy and romance is one of life's difficult choices, so I make it easy on myself. I leave a cent on my centre table and flip it whenever I can't choose. Heads equals romance and tails equals fantasy. If I’m not thrilled with the result I get, I change it, because it means I knew what genre I wanted to read deep down.
Placing the rusted colour cent on my thumb nail, I flick it off my index finger so the cent circles through the air before it falls into my palm. I smack it onto my opposite hand and reveal my result. Tails. Fantasy.
Skimming my two fantasy walls, I pull out a few and read their blurbs, figuring out which new world I want to enter today. I’m stuck between two, and as my eyes bounce between them both, something else catches my eye.
A white, dainty feather in the corner of the room. The sixth one I’ve found in the past two weeks.
Confusion racks my brain as I try to figure out the two week long mystery I've been living in. Picking it up, I feel each strand before I place it on the table.
At first, I thought Ashy had killed a bird and was bringing in the feathers, but the more I investigated them, the more I realised they were fake feathers and not from a bird. I thought Bucky could be bringing them in from the garden, but to find fake feathers means someone had to put them there, and I’ve done laps of my garden to search for them, but no luck. One was even in my dressing table drawer.
Unease sits at the forefront of my mind as I’ve exhausted every reason why the fake feathers are appearing, but I come up empty every time.
Not only is it fake feathers, but I’ve noticed items missing in the house. My favourite black cherry candle, some pens from my office, a bracelet from my jewellery box, and my favourite cherry red lipstick. Things my pets could get their paws on, but it would be of no interest to them.
But there’s no other solution. I have to believe it’s Ashy and Bucky, because if I start thinking outside the box, anxiety and fear will control me and convince me I’m unsafe in my own, locked up home. And I’m way out of my depth if someone is entering my house. My safe haven would be anything but that. The thought leaves me feeling nauseous.
I take the feather into my office and add it to the pot with the rest. Taking a deep breath of composure, I tell Bucky and Ashy to stop bringing feathers inside the house and shut the office door behind me, letting the trepidation and panic stay behind the closed door.
2
Tristan
Fridays should be a feel-good day. It’s the end of the working week which encourages a lot of happy moods and positive vibes, but I’m ten seconds away from stabbing my favourite black fountain pen in my eye.
De Santos Properties has its weekly Friday morning meeting to discuss our current financial situation and anything we need to change or improve on. My family has been working in real estate since my great grandparents founded our family business. Since then, it’s expected for the business to follow down through the family.
I wanted to be an artist growing up. Painting has always been a safe space for me. It’s the one place I can express my feelings and get them all out onto a canvas. People think a completed painting is the finished product, but every stroke of the paint brush is what it’s all about. Each swirl, line, and blend gives me such an accomplished feeling that the whole painting experience feels rewarding. It doesn’t matter if I paint for ten minutes or ten hours, each time it gives me a euphoric feeling that I never want to escape. But painting was never the De Santos way. Real estate is the only option given to every De Santos child, so as expected, that’s what I do.
“We’ve already surpassed our target for this year,” my older brother Nathaniel states as he points at the whiteboard lit up with De Santos Properties yearly stats. “DSP has had an influx of customers this past year which has led to our company growing bigger than we ever expected. The target growth areas we identified last year have blown our estimations out of the water.”
My father; Tomás, my grandfather; Jorge, Mark, the finance manager and Robert, our company attorney nod towards my brother in understanding and what I can only assume is agreement. Both my father and grandfather have minimal facial expressions, almost like they’ve had Botox and physically cannot move their features. Except their very clear forehead wrinkles and mouth creases make it obvious they haven’t had an inch of work done to their face, minimal emotional expressions are all my father and grandfather are capable of.
My parents were married before me and Nate were born so we didn’t attend the wedding, but judging from my father’s constant poker face, I can’t even picture him smiling to my mother when he said I do. That man even laughs without smiling, it’s terrifying.
“So, let’s up our yearly goal,” I pitch in. “Try and aim for double. It’s possible for us to achieve, considering how successful DSP has been so far this year.”
My grandfather’s nod of approval is the adult version of a pat on the back. You know you’ve said something worthy of his approval if he nods. I’m good at what I do, but I’m often not praised for it because I’m not the first-born son. My brother is only two years older than me but is always the one who is chosen first for every business opportunity and is the opinion my grandfather and father value the most. No hate towards my brother, he’s the only one in this company who actually listens to my propositions and ideas and tries his absolute hardest to make sure I get as much involvement in the company as he does. They all see my potential, but Nate is the only one who acts on it.
My father and grandfather weren't always this cold but they are victims of their own success. The tough exteriors they project is a protection mechanism. Vulnerability is considered weakness in their eyes.
DSPs success has always been obvious to anyone. Our company headquarters stands six stories above any other building in the district and continues to grow as each investment and portfolio grows. Our success attracted the attention of low life's looking to help themselves to our wealth. Although the attacks happened before we were born, the damage to our family psyche was done. As soon as Nate and I were old enough, our father arranged personal self defence classes.
Learning how to defend myself became more addictive with each punch, kick, and new move I learnt. I craved a fight because I enjoyed being in control. Having someone submit to me because of the pain I caused was a power trip, but it was also an addiction. Self-defence classes were also my chance to escape my father and grandfather and their weighted high expectations on me my whole life.
The combination of the cold male influences in my life and fighting, being in power and control were all I craved. Men are in charge, women submit. As a young, easily influenced son and grandson, I could’ve believed that was the way. Except I'm a grown man and I know what’s right and wrong. But darkness still controls my mind and makes me do some morally questionable things.
“Mark, have a look at our potential earnings for the rest of the year so I can work up a plan of action for DSP, and then we’ll review at next Friday’s meeting.” I instruct before I pack up my things and head out. I’m more than happy to be leaving the meeting room. The cream-coloured walls and wooden décor makes me feel nauseous each time, but my grandfather refuses to have the room redecorated. He says it reminds him of his younger business days and that’s supposed to be enough reason to not change the hideous looking room.
