Page 33 of Unholy Nights

"Breathe, little one," Cohen murmurs, his hand finding mine across the console. His touch calms me better than one of my mother’s Xanax, steadying the wild rhythm of my heart. "Let me handle your mother."

"But how will you—"

He silences me with a look that brooks no argument. "I'll handle her," he repeats, his voice firm and unyielding. "You did well tonight. Trust me to take care of things."

I swallow hard, nodding as I let him help me out of the car. My legs shake as we walk across the driveway. Before we get to the front door, it swings open, spilling warm light across the snow and revealing my mother standing in the entryway. Her face has that pinched, disapproving look she gets when she's really, really angry.

"Where have you been?" she snaps, her eyes flicking back and forth between us. "The menu tasting was supposed to start two hours ago."

I shrink into myself, but Cohen's hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. I straighten my shoulders. "That was my fault," he says smoothly. "The meeting with Emmitt ran long, and then we had to deal with some unexpected business.”

My mother's eyes narrow, scanning over us both with laser precision. I hold my breath, certain she can see the truth written all over my face. Can she tell I've been kissed? Does sin leave visible marks? Because that's what this is, isn't it? Sin?

"Business," she repeats, the word dripping with skepticism. "And this business required you to be gone for hours?"

"Actually, yes." Cohen's voice carries that edge of authority that makes even my mother hesitate. "Emmitt was... difficult. But it's handled now. Isn't that right, Emerald?"

I nod quickly, relieved when my voice comes out steady. "Yes. Everything's arranged for the auction."

My mother's lips press into a thin line, but she steps aside to let us inside. "Well, I suppose we'll have to reschedule the tasting. Though really, Cohen, you should have called."

"You're right," he says, helping me out of my coat with careful hands that linger just a little too long. "My apologies."

She watches this interaction with sharp eyes, and something in her expression makes me nervous. Like she knows.

Does she know?

Can she see the way he affects me? Can she see that her daughter is a twisted, sick thing that craves the touch of a man that could ruin her life? Can she see it? Can she feel the darkness that clings to us?

"Emerald," she snaps, making me jump. "What are you wearing?"

Oh god.The jeans.In all the chaos of kissing Cohen and coming home late, I'd completely forgotten about my rebellion against the ridiculous dress code my mother enforces. Panic rises in my throat again, choking me with the fear of what she'll do. My mother doesn't tolerate defiance, especially not in front of guests. I brace myself for her tirade, for the icy anger that's about to rain down on me. "Mother, I can explain—"

But Cohen cuts in smoothly. "My suggestion," he says. "For the meeting with Emmitt. I thought a more... approachable look might put him at ease."

My mother's eyebrows shoot up. "Approachable? Since when does my daughter need to appear approachable?"

"Since Emmitt's ego needed managing," Cohen replies, his tone carrying just enough bite to make my mother blink. "Trust me, Madeline. It worked perfectly."

A tense silence follows as they stare each other down. I hold my breath, caught between them like a butterfly in a spider's web. Finally, my mother lets out a sharp sigh.

"Fine. But Emerald, change immediately. And get some rest—we have the photographer coming back tomorrow for additional shots."

"Yes, Mother." The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I say them anyway. It's easier than fighting.

I start toward the stairs, my legs shaky, but my mother's voice stops me. "Oh, and Emerald? Come see me in my office first thing tomorrow morning. We need to discuss some things."

My blood turns to ice water in my veins. "Of course."

I practically run up the stairs, my heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Behind me, I hear my mother saying something to Cohen in that sharp, controlled voice she uses when she's angry, but I don't stop to listen.

Relief crashes through me as I slam the door to my room and lock it, then lean against it. My whole body feels jittery, likeI've had too much caffeine, and my thoughts are a whirlwind of fear and confusion and something else—something hot and desperate and wild.

Cohen.

The way he looked at me. The way he kissed me. The way he made me feel alive for the first time in my life.

I touch my lips which are still a little swollen from his kisses.

---