Page 26 of Unholy Nights

When he opens my door, there’s the lightest brush of his fingers along my hip. It’s so soft, I’d almost think I imagined it,but there’s an explosion of chills across my skin that seems to happen every time his body makes any sort of contact with mine.

The moment he slides in beside me, the space between us feels way too small. My fingers dig into the buttery leather, searching for something solid in a moment that feels anything but. I wiggle in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin, but it just makes him glance my way.

And then I do it. I breathe him in like some kind of idiot, like my body’s decided it has a mind of its own. I try to be sneaky about it, but the smirk playing at his lips tells me I failed.

I press my legs together because of that look. Being this close to him, just the two of us, his scent and just… hispresencetaking up all the space, I’m getting warm.

Uncomfortable in places I’ve never been uncomfortable.

I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know how to handle it, especially not with him watching me so closely, even as he shifts the car into gear and pulls out of the driveway.

“Emerald.” The way he says my name wraps around me like a velvet ribbon. “Look at me.”

Against my better judgment, I do. His gray eyes lock onto mine, and it’s like staring into the center of a winter storm—cold, endless, and impossible to look away from. The gate opens slowly, but he doesn’t move, his attention fixed on me as though the world beyond the car doesn’t exist.

"If Emmitt touches you," his voice drops into a lethal sort of quiet, "if he so much as breathes too close to you, you tell me. Understand?"

My throat goes dry. "Yes."

"You’re learning.”

His praise sends tingles down my spine, and I have to look away. Outside, snow falls in delicate flakes, making everything look pure and clean. Cohen steers us out into the road and Iwatch his hands, how big and strong they are as they effortlessly grip the steering wheel and control this expensive piece of machinery.

And then I think about my dreams last night and I shift in my seat again, wishing I didn't react to him the way I do. Heat floods my cheeks as fragments of those dreams flash through my mind—his hands on me, his lips...

Maybe I’m sick, like in the head.

"What are you thinking about?" His question startles me out of my thoughts.

I nibble my lip, studying my hands in my lap. "Nothing important." But my face feels like it's on fire, and I know he can tell I'm lying.

"Try again, little one." His voice has that edge to it, the one that makes my stomach do backflips.

"I..." I swallow hard. "Last night. I had... dreams." The last word comes out as barely a whisper.

Ugh, I can’t believe I’m telling him this.

His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. "What kind of dreams?"

My cheeks burn hotter, if that's even possible. "I don't... I can't..." I shake my head, mortified. How can I tell him about dreams that make me feel so strange, so... warm? I don't know how to describe it to myself let alone explain it to him.

"You can tell me anything." His voice makes me want to confess all my secrets and beg for forgiveness.

"They're embarrassing.”

"Embarrassing how?"

I glance out the window to find we’re stuck at one of the few downtown stoplights, a line of sleek luxury cars idling in front of us—Bentleys, Porsches, the occasional Rolls-Royce—decked out with red bows and wreaths that gleam in the glow of glittering twinkle lights. It’s almost enough to distract me, butthen he speaks again, and my stomach does that fluttery thing it’s started doing around him.

"What kind of dreams, Emerald?"

I shouldn’t have said anything. Heat prickles at the back of my neck, crawling down my spine and pooling low in my stomach. I keep my eyes fixed on the dashboard, unable to handle the weight of his gaze. I’m horrible at standing up for myself, and just keeping my mouth shut instead of spilling my greatest shame all over my stepfather is already exhausting. “Just… dreams. Nothing important.”

"Everything about you is important." He drops his grip on the shifter and grabs my hand, weaving our fingers together to hold my hand. Little fireworks detonate under my skin and I can’t stop staring at my smaller fingers folded between his big ones. "Tell me."

Crap, crap, crap.

What if I don’t obey and he takes his hand away?

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