Ethan Frome Novels & Stories

Arthur nodded his head and got up to get ready. Jake shook his head in disbelief, “I can’t believe you are spoiling my new roomie already.” “Your new roomie is cute,” Ethan said, eyeing at Arthur. “Interested?” Jake asked. “Very much,” “Hmmm. Be careful. He seems like he is into women,” Jake warned his friend. He was very well aware that Ethan was gay. Ethan had been openly gay since he was in high school. Thanks to his free spirit and fun loving character, all of the people who he came across seemed to understand him and love him, love him, and respect him for whatever kind of person he is. And Ethan didn’t give two shits about people who looked at him weirdly for being gay.

At the age of twenty Ethan was a warrior for the Night Stalker pack but was still living at home, watching his father drink and his mind wither. Ethan had grown and bulked out with muscle. His good looks and golden blonde hair made him popular with the ladies and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he took advantage of that whenever he needed release. He didn’t care that he was defiling someone else’s mate. In fact, it took great pleasure in it knowing that he was these young women’s first, something their mates would never be. Bethany was pretty much useless as far as Ethan was concerned. She was spooked by everything and stuttered whenever she spoke. Thankfully she knew her place, cooking and

Why can’t he pay them to cure Mom? I learned to read novels to Mom back then until she fell asleep. She loves Thomas Hardy, just like Dad. I distanced myself from everything that would remind me of her suffering. This annoying confinement that smelled of alcohol. They tried to hide the irking scent with artificial fragrance from bleach and soap, but it did nothing to my senses. Even from Hardy’s books, I kept a respectful distance because every word, every hard cover, reminds me of her. “Can you direct me where Evan Carter is?” I breathed out at the receptionist. She has a landline trapped on her shoulders and right cheeks. Fingers keep punching on the keyboard.

Authors pOV Ethan’s car rolled quietly down the familiar streets, the city lights reflecting faintly off the windshield. His mind was focused, but his chest was heavy with the weight of everything that had happened. Charlotte had caused him so much pain, so much humiliation, and yet now he had the opportunity to finally uncover the truth. He parked outside her mansion and took a deep breath, adjusting his shirt and straightening his posture.

"But you know what? You seem strong, Amelia. Stronger than you think." His words resonated within me, a spark of confidence igniting in my chest. "Maybe," I admitted, feeling a little lighter than I had all morning. We talked for what felt like hours, about everything and nothing. Ethan's easygoing nature and witty banter managed to draw a genuine laugh from me, the first one since leaving Eddie's house. As we talked, the minutes slipped by unnoticed. Ethan was a captivating conversationalist, his stories filled with humor and a genuine curiosity about the world. He was an aspiring writer, currently working on a novel set in his hometown, a charming seaside town he described with vivid detai

That's just a small part of the mate bond, the ability to feel and know the heart and head of your beloved. Ethan sensed there was more than just the warning his mother was giving his sister he had heard the stories told by many pack members about the grandfather he never knew and the cruelty of his death. He thought a change of subject was just what his family needed on this unpredictable day, "Hello, does anyone remember me, the first born? You know there just might be some extremely lucky lady who will soon get all of this." He said this as he flexed his bicep showing unbelievable defined muscles that rippled and strained against the bottom of his t-shirt sleeve. At this Emma teased, "You

The strip of red tartan around my neck prevents any further trouble, at least. I eat as much as I can during lunch, so I do not have to stray downstairs after dark when the alcohol comes out and the bagpipe music starts playing. I ignore Isla’s comments, and Vladimir’s leers. And I spend the rest of my days reading, while the anger inside me grows thorns and shoots. Why has Ethan left me? Is he okay? On the third morning, I wake at dawn. The sun has not yet risen, and the air smells strangely like perfume and roses. I slept restlessly and dreamt of Wolves and wilderness and darkness.

The radio was a low hum of static and a country song about a man losing everything, which felt a little too on the nose for our lives. "You’re thinking too loud again," Ethan said. He was leaning against the driver’s side door, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his knuckles stained with grease from the shift he’d just finished at the marina. At nineteen, Ethan Cole didn't have a billion-dollar empire or a suit tailored in London. He had a jawline that could cut glass, a pair of boots with holes in the soles, and a way of looking at me that made me feel like I was the only thing on earth that wasn't broken.

She is content. Ethan drives into the house this night from work. He honks his horn severally at the gate, waiting on the gateman to open up the gate just so he drives into his enclosure. The old man takes some time doing his job and I am impatient and want to do it by myself when I finally hear the gate open.

“I was going to ask Dad.” “Smart,” she said. “Because if you tried to light that stove yourselves, we’d lose the kitchen again.” He grinned, caught. A voice drifted from behind her. “I see I’m being volunteered again.” Ethan stood in the doorway—half-dressed, half-shadow, a towel thrown over one shoulder. The morning light struck him in fragments—over the hard planes of his chest, the scars tracing his ribs, the quiet strength that never dulled. He looked older. Not worn—tempered. Like a weapon that had learned when not to strike.