Page 70 of Unholy Nights

"That one's definitely my favorite." Cohen's voice holds barely contained amusement as he points to a particularly tragic attempt at a felt snowman.

"Shut up." I smack his arm while I try not to laugh and Ember squeals at the lights. "I'd like to see you do better."

Turns out he’s just as bad at crafting as I am.

His free arm snakes around my waist, pulling me against him. "I wouldn't dare try. Your horrible crafting skills are one of the things I love most about you."

"Horrible?" I gasp in mock offense, but then his lips find my neck and coherent thought becomes impossible. Even after two years, one touch from him still makes everything else fade away.

"Down!" Ember demands, squirming in Cohen's arms. The moment her feet touch the floor she toddles toward the presents, remarkably steady for someone who just learned to walk a few months ago.

"Wait for us, little flame." Cohen keeps his arm around me as we follow her, and I lean into him, already missing his touch if he moves even an inch away. Some things never change.

"Pretty," Ember declares, pointing to a package wrapped in silver paper. She inherited Cohen's ability to zero in on exactly what she wants, and she won’t be distracted by anything until she gets it.

"Should we let her open one before breakfast?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Neither of us can deny her anything.

Cohen pulls me closer, his hand sliding to my belly where our son shoves an elbow… or maybe a foot? "Let her enjoy it. This Christmas is nothing like the ones you had growing up."

He's right. My childhood Christmases were photo opportunities, every moment staged for maximum marketing appeal and over the last couple of years, I’ve told him more than he ever realized. But here, watching our daughter attack wrapping paper with unrestrained joy while wearing footie pajamas covered in dancing reindeer, I finally understand what Christmas is supposed to feel like.

"I love you," I whisper, turning in his arms. "Thank you for giving me this. All of this."

His eyes darken as he cups my face. "You gave me everything worth having." His thumb traces my bottom lip. "A family. A future. A reason for existing."

A shiver runs through me at the intensity in his voice. Even after two years, one look from him still makes everything elsefade away. We're still as desperately in need of each other as we were that first Christmas. Maybe more now that we have Ember and another baby on the way.

A squeal of delight pulls us from our moment as Ember discovers the rocking horse Cohen insisted she needed. She's still too small for it, but that didn't stop him from having it custom made.

"Help!" She commands, making grabby hands at Cohen. He releases me reluctantly, though his hand trails across my lower back as he moves, like he can't bear to break contact completely.

I know the feeling.

I sink into the oversized armchair, curling my legs under me while I watch my husband lift our daughter onto the horse. His massive hands span her tiny waist as he shows her how to hold the reins, and my heart does this weird flutter thing that happens every time I see them together.

"Remember when you were so nervous about being a father?" I ask, watching him with Ember. Back then, after he'd confessed everything—about the pregnancy test, about the real night I lost my virginity—I think that was the only time I'd ever seen him truly afraid.

He looks up, those storm-gray eyes intense even as Ember tries to eat the rocking horse's mane. "I'm good at this because of you. Because you love me despite everything. Because you understood why I did what I did."

"I'll always understand you," I say, but I'm tearing up because pregnancy hormones are no joke.

"Mama cry?" Ember's bottom lip trembles in sympathy.

"Happy tears, little flame." I hold out my arms and she launches herself off the horse, trusting completely that one of us will catch her. Cohen does, of course. He always catches us.

She climbs into my lap—or tries to, given my enormous belly—and pats my face with sticky hands. I have no idea what'smaking them sticky since she hasn't had breakfast yet, but that's just life with a toddler.

"More presents?" She asks hopefully.

Cohen settles on the floor beside my chair, one hand automatically finding my ankle. "What do you think, little one? Should we spoil her more?"

"Like you haven't already bought out half the toy stores in Seattle." But I'm smiling because I love how much he loves giving her everything I never had. Freedom. Choices. Unconditional love.

And so. Many. Toys.

My thoughts drift briefly to my mother, serving her twenty-five-year sentence in federal prison. The evidence Cohen had collected destroyed not just her social standing, but her entire world. The charges of fraud, embezzlement, and conspiracy had shocked Emerald Hills' elite almost as much as the revelation that their perfect society queen had orchestrated my father's death.

But those thoughts don't hurt anymore. Not with Cohen's arms around me, our daughter's laughter filling our home, and our son growing strong inside me. My mother's darkness has no power here in the light.

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