Page 3 of Unholy Nights

Emerald’s shoulders drop and she blows out a breath, as if she’s been given a reprieve from whatever thoughts were consuming her. But I’m not done with her. Not by a long shot.

“Shall we?” I offer her my arm with a slight smile. She hesitates, glancing at me as if unsure whether she should accept, but in the end, she does. Of course she does.

Her hand is soft and warm against my arm as we walk together toward the dining room. This is the first time I’ve gotten this close and I can feel every inch of her, every step she takes beside me. My jaw clenches as the hunger for her I’ve been fighting for two years ignites deep inside me—bone deep and impossible to ignore any longer.

This is how it should always be between us, with her by my side, pressed against me, looking to me to give her what she needs.

My wife is waiting for us, seated at the head of the long, ridiculous table, her icy blue eyes flicking between me and her daughter. If she’s surprised to see us arrive together, she doesn’t show it.

Madeline’s always watching. Always calculating.

Pulling off my plan is going to take every ounce of my cunning and strategy. There are many things I dislike about my wife, but I have to admit that she’s a worthy adversary.

She may be good, but I like to think I’m better.

I guess time will tell.

“Darling,” she greets me with a smile that doesn’t reach her frosty eyes. “I hope Emerald hasn’t been boring you.”

I smile back at her even as I bristle at her words, the perfect picture of a doting husband as I pull the chair out for my stepdaughter and reluctantly move away from her touch. I bury my reaction to her shitty passive aggressive comment about her daughter, unwilling to show just how much it pisses me off. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let it slide, though. “Never. She has a remarkable way of seeing the world.”

Madeline’s smile tightens, and there’s a flicker of irritation in her eyes. She doesn’t like it when I pay too much attention to Emerald. Not that she’s ever said it outright, but I can see it in the way she watches us, the way her jaw clenches whenever I speak to her daughter.

Which isn’t even close to often enough.

But that’s the thing about Madeline. She’s too proud, too arrogant to believe that anything could ever slip out of her control. She thinks she has me wrapped around her finger, just like everyone else in her life.

But she’s wrong.

Because this isn’t her story.

It’s mine.

And Emerald?

She’s mine too.

The dinner passes in an endless slog of forced smiles and meaningless conversation. Madeline blathers on about the upcoming Delacroix Christmas party, which, according to her, is the ‘event of the year’, her plans for the new year, and all the ways she’s going to expand her empire. Emerald listens quietly, nodding in all the right places, but I can see the way her fingers fidget in her lap, the way her eyes glaze over as her mother drones on about things that don’t matter.

She’s suffocating. Drowning in the shallow little world Madeline has built around her.

And I’m going to be the one to pull her out of it. Give her the oxygen from my lungs if I need to. I’ll peel back the layers of Madeline’s control, one at a time. Even if it means my stepdaughter gets a glimpse of the darkness inside me.

By the time dessert is served, Madeline has finally shut the fuck up, and the room falls into uncomfortable silence. Emerald glances at me from across the table, her eyes flicking between me and her mother as if she’s trying to figure something out. I meet her gaze, holding it just a little too long, and there’s confusion there. Hesitation.

Good.

Let her wonder. Let her question. Because the more she does, the closer she’ll come to realizing the truth. That she doesn’t belong in her mother’s world. She belongs in mine.

After dinner, Madeline disappears into her office, the faint scent of sulfur lingering in the air. Emerald and I are finally alone.

Emerald pushes away from the table, standing up, her gaze darting to me before dropping to the floor. I follow suit, but she steps back, putting distance between us. I fucking hate distance. She fidgets with her sleeves, her expression tense, her voice quieter than before.

“Tonight… it was nice. Talking, you know?” A faint pink blooms on her cheeks, and she refuses to make eye contact. “But I think I should go to bed," she says, glancing toward the hallway as she chews on that lip that drives me to madness.

I nod, tucking my hands into the pockets of my pants to keep from reaching for her and dragging her against me. "If that’s what you need."

Her eyes meet mine again for a heartbeat, and as always, she holds me hostage until she blinks and looks away. She swallows before taking a step back, her voice barely above a whisper. "Goodnight, Cohen."

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