Page 21 of Unholy Nights

Please don't be a mind reader. Please don't be a mind reader. Please don't—

But she just clicks her tongue and moves closer, reaching for my necklace. "This shade of gold isn't right with the cream. Kendra!"

Oh thank god. I hold my breath to keep from blowing it out in relief. Just another fashion ‘crisis’. I can handle a fashion crisis. That's, like, a normal Tuesday in his house.

Her assistant materializes like she was summoned by dark magic. "Yes, Mrs. Delacroix?"

"Get the pearl set from my jewelry cabinet. The one with the drop earrings."

"Right away."

I stand still as my mother adjusts my hair, her touches clinical and impersonal. Like she's arranging flowers in a vase. She's never been the kind of mother who hugs or shows affection. Everything about her is calculated, even her love—which I’m not convinced she even feels toward me.

Maybe she’s not capable of feeling it at all.

"There," she says finally, stepping back. "Now you look perfect."

Perfect. I clench my teeth together to keep from cringing. I hate perfect.

"Has anyone seen my husband?" she asks, checking her phone. "He should be back by now."

As if on cue, the front door opens downstairs, followed by familiar footsteps. My pulse takes off, and I hate myself for it. Hate that I recognize his walk, that my body responds to him before I even see him. Like my personal Cohen-radar just kicked into high alert.

"I'm here," his deep voice carries up the stairs, smooth as melted chocolate. He stops in my doorway, leaning against the door frame, and his eyes immediately find mine.

Heat floods through me like a fever, burning under every inch of my skin, and for a second, I forget how to exist. I forget where I am. His gaze locks onto mine like he's trying to tell me secrets no one else can hear. Like I'm falling and flying at the same time, and somehow I know he won't let me crash. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I swear the room tilts sideways. I want to reach out, to close the space between us, to... to what? I don't even know what I want, but it scares me how badly I wantsomething.

"Well, hurry up and change," my mother's voice slices through the moment, and reality comes crashing back. I blink, remembering where I am.Whoelse is in this room. "We're already running behind."

I wrench my gaze away, worry clawing up my throat. Did anyone notice? Did my mother see how I was staring at her husband like he was oxygen and I was drowning? And what did he see in my face? I risk a quick glance, my heart in my throat, but Cohen's already looking at my mother, his expression unreadable. I drop my eyes to the floor, praying no one caught what must've been written all over my face.

I barely have time to collect myself before my mother spins on her heel, leading everyone downstairs. I follow because I have to, my legs unsteady and my mind a mess. I'm doing what's expected of me, being the obedient daughter, ready for her next command. But it feels harder today, every step heavier, weighed down by feelings I don't understand and thoughts I wish I could ignore.

I hate how I keep thinking about him, hate the way I got caught staring. Hate how much I want him to look at me again, to touch me again, to say my name in that soft, dark way that makes my skin come alive.

And most of all, I hate that no matter how much I try, I don't think I can stop.

When we get downstairs,Cohen stands in the foyer, and my brain short-circuits for a second. He's changed into a black velvet suit jacket thathasto be illegal somewhere because the way it hugs his broad shoulders and narrow waist is just... unfair. Completely unfair.

And there I go again, noticing things about my stepfather that I definitely shouldn't notice. Like how his dark hair falls just slightly messy, or how his storm-gray eyes seem to catch every tiny movement I make. Or how he has this way of owning whatever space he's in that makes it impossiblenotto look at him.

God, I need therapy.

Our eyes meet, and something dark and hungry flashes in his gaze that makes my stomach do Olympic-level gymnastics.

"You look beautiful, little one," he says softly, and my mother shoots him a sharp look.

"Don't encourage her vanity, Cohen. Emerald, go outside. The photographers want to start with some solo shots."

The words slice through me, and suddenly I'm that little girl again, never quite good enough, never quiteperfectenough. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I feel exposed, laid bare in front ofCohen. It's one thing when my mother criticizes me in private, but having him witness it makes me want to crawl into a hole and die.

I move past him toward the door, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat, when his hand brushes against my lower back, so quickly I might have imagined it. But the touch burns through my dress, sending electricity racing down my spine that definitely isn't appropriate for a stepdaughter to feel. When I dare to glance up, he winks at me and something in his expression seems to say he doesn't believe a word my mother said.

I shouldn't like that so much. I really,reallyshouldn't.

Hopefully she didn’t notice.

Outside, snow covers everything in an untouched white blanket that would be beautiful if it wasn't about to be used as another backdrop for my mother's endless pursuit of perfection. The photography team has set up lights and reflectors, transforming our backyard into what probably looks like a winter wonderland to anyone who doesn't know better.

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