Ethan Frome Novels & Stories

1913, Revington Manor, London, England The image of that certain dandelion still haunts me to this very day. It has been four days ever since that night happened. My mind has been occupied by Gavin for the rest of week and every time his face appears on my mind, my heart can not control itself. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself as I returned to the pile of contracts and papers I had to sign. I have far more important tasks to finish today and I can not be bothered by a person whom I no longer have any contact with.

However, Ethan had now lost his memory, and as someone who had lost his memory, how could he possibly remember something like that? My thoughts blurred, and just then, the auction segment began. Ethan’s painting, ‘Years in the Mountains,’ was brought out as the final piece. The canvas showed a quiet wooden cabin. In front of it, a girl sat feeding chickens, sunlight spilling over her. Everything about it felt peaceful. That was the three years he spent with Jane. “Mr. Ethan,” a collector seated in the front row asked curiously, “the lighting in this piece is incredibly gentle. What was your state of mind when you painted it?”

Cara did not fill it. They crossed the river and the city came back around them. Buildings pressing in. Traffic thickening. The familiar weight of London reassembling itself. "He knew," Ethan said finally. "Yes." "He has known since the Cotswolds." "Yes." A pause. "And he said nothing." "He let it be what it was," Cara said. "He trusted it to become what it needed to become." Ethan looked at the road. "Don't waste it," he said quietly. Repeating it. Holding it.

The corner of Bruce’s mouth quirked. His Young Master had been furious just a few hours ago; now he was smiling dreamily. Whatever relationship he and the Young Mistress had, it wasn’t anything ordinary. “I’ll make sure something happens to Brock Davenport so he’ll stay away from the Mistress”. *. *. *. *. *. Later that night, while Jane got ready for bed, Ethan was reading a book on Marxism. — a ponderous read but he seemed engrossed in it. Her husband was so clever, she remarked in her mind.

"The spice traders from the southern track said Vane’s scouts were turning over the hay-wains three miles down. They’re still looking for the Alchemist's books." "Vane is a dog who doesn't have any teeth left," Ethan growled, his mouth slamming down onto the side of my neck, his teeth catching the skin just above the old collar scar with a heavy, breathless pressure that made my knees go loose under the shift. He didn't use the palace voice now. He used that low, desperate rasp that belonged entirely to the cabin and the dark. "Let them turn the wagons. There is nothing in this valley but two commoners and a pair of brats who smell like a burning forest." "Ethan," I gasped, my hands slipping

CHAPTER 19 - “The Door That Almost Opened” I didn’t answer the voice outside. I knew that voice. I knew the weight behind it. And I knew that if I answered, something in my life would break for good. “Adrian,” the voice called again. Calm. Polite. Patient. “I know you’re in there.” My chest tightened. Ethan stood frozen a few steps away from me. His eyes searched my face, not for orders, but

40. Rachael. The lingering echo of Ethan's departure hung heavy in the air, a silent testament to the unspoken tension that had crackled between us. Long after his shadow had disappeared into the depths of the mansion, I remained rooted to the spot, my gaze fixed on the empty space he had occupied. He had promised me protection, a steadfast presence by my side, yet he had left, summoned away by his father, leaving me alone with the enigmatic Naomi Rutherford. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach.

~Fifteen years later~ “Why is this place so jam-locked?” Ethan Wellman muttered through clenched teeth, his voice carrying the edge of restrained frustration. Tall, broad-shouldered, with jet-black hair that glistened under the streetlights, he looked every bit the man who turned heads without meaning to, but it was his eyes—those deep, warm-ocean eyes that betrayed him. They sparked when he was angry, yet had the uncanny ability to calm whoever met them.

Ethan knocked lightly on the front door, still damp from skimming the pool. He glanced around the huge house that Mrs Malowe lived in all alone. She had no husband, no one at all, and he envied her so much for having such a huge space to herself. Ethan heard footsteps approaching from inside and stiffened. Mrs Malowe was different from other older women her age. She was properly old enough to be his mother, but he had never known anyone as dangerously beautiful as she was. She had such heavy, round breasts that Ethan had imagined touching, suffocating in them. She had a habit of lying outside beside the pool naked while he cleaned, and Ethan was always close to cumming in his shorts every ti

The air was holding its very breath in anticipation with her. She was spreading a thin layer of jam when she heard the distant rumble of wheels and glanced around. Ethan sauntered into the kitchen, his wet hair standing on end a little on one side as if he'd barely smoothed it after his shower. He was sleepy-eyed but awake. He was worn out but giving his best effort. It was a dry, joking tone. "Poison me with gluten this morning?" Forced a smile. “Trying not to burn down the house.”