Page 18 of Unholy Nights

The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. Memories of yesterday flood back—Emmitt's eyes on me in the boutique, the way he looked at me like he was starving and I was a perfect medium-rare steak. If it hadn't been for Cohen...

Cohen.

Just thinking his name makes my body temperature spike, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair as that strange ache between my legs intensifies.

What evenisthat?

"Good morning, ladies."

His voice slides over me like melted butter, and my heart does a stupid little skip-jump that’s really unsettling. I don't have to look up to know it's him. My body seems to have developed some kind of radar where Cohen's concerned, and the second he stepped into the room, I felt him in the tiny hairs on the back of my neck that lifted up and in the heat spreading over my skin.

"Did you sleep well, little one?" he asks, his voice low and intimate like we're sharing secrets while he walks behind my chair to his seat at the head of the table. The way he says 'little one' is different from how he says anything else. It’s softer, darker, like he's tasting the words before letting them go. I nod, and the tips of his fingers brush along the back of my neck. I shiver. His touch is nothing like my mother's clinical adjustments. It feels personal, like he's laying claim to the skin beneath his fingers.

Goosebumps run down my arms in the wake of his attention and when his touch lifts off my skin, I immediately mourn the loss.

Crap, crap, crap.

I hope he didn't notice.

I may not have to look up, but I do.

I do look up, because I can't not look at him.

He's wearing a charcoal grey suit that fits his fit body perfectly, his dark hair slightly messy like he's been running his fingers through it. He looks... really good.

Likebreath catching in my throatgood.

Likeheart skipping a beatgood.

Likeplease look at me and no one else ever againgood.

When his steel-gray eyes meet mine, something electric zips down my spine.

And I officially want to slap myself.

He stares at me, our eyes locked together, and I'm trapped in his snow cloud eyes until my mother's voice breaks the spell. "Cohen," my mother greets him with her public smile. "Perfect timing. We were just discussing Emerald's involvement with the Christmas party planning."

His expression doesn't change, but when he shifts his gaze off of me and in my mother's direction, I swear I see something dangerous there. Almost like when he stood up for me with Emmitt yesterday. After his proclamation that he'll handle all things Emmitt Caldwell from now on, I wonder how he's going to take my mother's orders about my role in the party planning. "Oh?" he says, his voice deceptively casual as he takes his seat. "And what involvement would that be?"

"Emmitt's requested her help with the charity auction," my mother says, and I swear the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. "It's an excellent opportunity for her."

I can feel Cohen's gaze on me, intense like he's trying to force my eyes back up to his with only the power of his mind, but I stay fixated on the mutilated croissant in front of me. My hands are trembling, so I hide them in my lap.

"Is that so?" Cohen's voice is smooth as glass, but there's an edge to it that makes me shiver. "And you think that's appropriate, considering his... reputation?"

My mother's smile tightens. "Emmitt is one of my most valued business partners, Cohen. His reputation is impeccable."

"Is it?" He reaches for the coffee one of the staff sets in front of him, his movements deliberate and controlled. "Because that's not what I've heard."

The tension in the room is crazy, like one wrong move could shatter everything around us. Someone's going to break first, and I really hope it's my mother and not Cohen. Ineedhim to win this. To stand up for me because for some reason, when it comes to my mother, I can't seem to do it myself.

I risk a glance at my stepfather, and the look on his face stops the breath in my lungs. There's something in his expression that makes my stomach clench. It’s not with fear exactly, but with recognition. His eyes lock onto my mother with an intensity that reminds me of those nature documentaries where the camera catches the exact moment before the lion attacks, when everything goes still and quiet and you know something's about to happen but you can't look away.

"Perhaps," my mother says, her teeth clenched together in a smile that's more of a bearing of her teeth than anything else, "we should discuss this later. In private."

"No," Cohen says simply, setting down his coffee cup with a soft clink. "We shouldn't." His attention shifts to me, and it feels like when I'm standing at the edge of our pool, knowing the water's freezing but wanting to dive in anyway. That moment of terrifying anticipation where my body's already leaning forwardbefore my brain can catch up and tell me to stop. "Emerald, do you want to work with Emmitt?"

The question catches me off guard. No one ever asks what I want. His steel-gray eyes lock onto mine, and that new heat spreads through my body, settling low in my belly where that strange ache has lived all morning. Something about the way he's looking at me makes me feel like my answer actually matters—likeImatter.

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