Page 22 of Unholy Nights

"Finally!" The photographer, a tall man with an impressive beard that makes me think of a hipster Santa, claps his hands. "Let's get started. Emerald, darling, stand by that tree. Yes, just like that. Now tilt your head down slightly." I do what he says, before he gives his next command. "Smile like you're trying to get on the naughty list."

If he only knew the kinds of thoughts I've been having about my stepfather, he'd probably need to invent a whole new list.

Wait, what? No. Bad Emerald. Very bad Emerald.

I'm sure this direction wasn't run by my mother. She'd never allow me to look anything less than angelic. Still, I pose as directed, trying to ignore the weight of Cohen's gaze from where he watches by the patio doors. I can't turn to see him, but I knowhe's there. His attention feels physical, like hands sliding over my skin. Like those dreams I keep having...

Nope. Not going there.Sonot going there.

"Excellent! The camera loves you, darling."

"She gets it from me," my mother says, appearing beside the photographer like she's been summoned by the mere suggestion that I might have a quality of my own. "Now, let's do the family shots. Cohen!"

My heart kicks into overdrive as he moves toward us through the snow. We're going to have to stand close, touch, pretend we're a normal family when everything about this is so far from normal.

"Right here," the photographer directs, positioning Cohen behind me, my mother to my right. "Mr. Astor, put your hand on your stepdaughter's shoulder. Mrs. Delacroix, angle yourself toward them slightly. Just like that!"

Cohen's hand lands on my shoulder, and it's like someone plugged me into an electrical socket. Even through my dress, his touch burns, and I have to fight every instinct that says to lean back into him, to seek more of that warmth in the cold. His thumb brushes against my neck, and I feel it all the way between my legs where that weird ache from this morning still lingers. A little gasp escapes before I can stop it, and while my mother (thank every possible deity) doesn't notice, I swear I hear a low chuckle from my stepfather.

Right. Because that'sexactlywhat I should be thinking about while my body's going haywire from my stepfather's touch. I smile wide, playing my part as the perfect daughter in the perfect family photo, while inside I'm screaming. Because Cohen's touch makes me feel things I don't understand, like I'm burning from the inside out. I can feel him behind me, solid and strong, and I know I shouldn't want him closer.

But I do.

And I have no idea what to do with that.

"Perfect!" The photographer claps his hands before gesturing toward the Gothic structure peeking through the snow-laden trees. "And the chapel in the background... the light hitting those windows would be divine for some final shots."

"No." My mother's voice is sharp enough to cut glass. "The chapel is not part of today's shoot."

The speed of her rejection makes me curious. I've caught her staring at the chapel sometimes, when she thinks no one's watching. There's something in her expression during those moments almost like fear. Which is ridiculous because my mother isn't afraid of anything.

Except maybe holy water.

The photoshoot drags on after that, and after what feels like hours of posing in the snow, my mother finally declares the it complete. I can't feel my toes, and my face hurts from fake smiling, but that's nothing compared to how my entire body's on high alert from having to stand beside Cohen for the last two hours. Every tiny movement, every breath, every subtle shift of his hand—my body noticedallof it.

"Emerald." My mother's voice slices through my thoughts like one of those fancy Japanese knives she keeps in the kitchen but never actually uses. "Don't forget you're meeting Emmitt at three to discuss the charity auction."

And just like that, my stomach drops into my frozen toes. "Right," I manage to say, though my voice comes out squeaky. "Where—"

"His office," she says, already typing on her phone like I'm not even worth looking at while she speaks to me. "Kendra will drive you."

"No, she won’t." Cohen's voice comes from behind me, making me jump. His tone carries an edge of warning thatmakes my skin prickle. "Or did you forget our discussion about my attending Emerald's meeting with Emmitt?"

My mother's shoulders stiffen, and when she looks up from her phone, her expression is carefully blank. Of course she hasn't forgotten—my mother never forgets anything. She was probably hoping Cohen would.

"I thought perhaps your schedule had changed," she says, her voice tight. "You mentioned a meeting—"

"My schedule is clear for this," Cohen cuts her off. "As I said before, either I attend, or she doesn't go at all."

The silence that follows feels...dangerous. I watch as something passes between them. It’s the same battle from this morning, but this time my mother seems to realize she's already lost.

Her lips press into a thin line. "Fine." She glances at her watch, her movements sharp with irritation. "But don't be late for dinner. We have the menu tasting for the party tonight."

She walks away across the snow in her heels, leaving me alone with my stepfather. The oxygen vanishes from the space between us, and even the winter air isn't enough to fill my lungs.

"Go change," he says softly, his breath warm against my ear. "Wear whatever you want."

Whatever I want.

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