Page 23 of Unholy Nights

Those three words turn my world sideways. My mind empties of everything except pure panic, which starts creeping in around the edges. My mother chooses everything—everything—down to the shade of nude in my stockings. The thought of standing in my closet and having to decide for myself is suddenly terrifying.

"I... I don't know what to wear," I whisper, feeling about two inches tall and completely ridiculous. My chest tightens as the panic builds. "I don't even know where to start. Do I dressprofessionally? Business casual? Formal? What if I pick wrong and everyone laughs and—"

His hand comes up to brush my cheek, gentle and soothing, and my rambling cuts off like someone hit a mute button. His fingers ghost across my skin like he's testing boundaries. Like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do. Like he’s writing secrets into my flesh that I'm not sure I’m ready to read.

"There are no expectations," he murmurs, his voice calm, like he’s talking me down from the side of a bridge. "No wrong answer. Just put on something comfortable. Something that makes you feel good."

I nod, trying to swallow the fear that's lodged in my throat. The idea of choosing still feels too big, too impossible. I bite my lip, my eyes on the floor as my mind whirls with uncertainty.

He grips my chin, forcing my gaze to his, andoh wow, his eyes should come with a warning label. "Let me help you choose," he says, and it doesn't sound like a suggestion. "We'll do it together."

I look up at him, meeting those stormy eyes, and something in his gaze—dark, hungry, but carefully controlled—makes the panic start to fade. I nod again, this time more sure.

"Such a good girl," he growls softly, his hand sliding possessively down my back as he guides me toward the house.

The way he says those words makes my whole body tingle, which is so not okay. When my mother says them, they make me feel about as significant as a speck of dust. But when Cohen says them? It's like being wrapped in the world's softest blanket while sitting by a fire drinking hot chocolate.

I am so, so screwed.

I let him lead me toward my room, because apparently I've lost all sense of self-preservation. Every step makes my heart beat faster, like it's trying to warn me that letting my stepfatherinto my personal space might not be the smartest decision I've ever made.

When we reach my room, Cohen doesn't hesitate at the threshold—just walks in like he owns the space. Like he ownsme. He's never been in here before, and watching him move through my bedroom makes me jittery and breathless. His large frame turns my spacious room tiny, and the air around us shifts into something dangerous and thrilling that I probably shouldn't like as much as I do.

"Show me your closet," he orders, the gentleness in his voice feeling like a reward for my obedience.

I lead him into my walk-in closet, every nerve ending suddenly aware of howalonewe are. He prowls through the rows of designer clothes like he's hunting for something specific. His fingers trail over fabrics, and he pauses at a silk dress. The way his fingers stroke the material makes heat bloom across my skin. Something about the way he touches them makes me imagine those fingers on me instead, and the thought sends electricity racing through my veins.

I shouldn't want that. He's my stepfather. He doesn't want to touch me.

Does he?

"Perfect for dealing with men like Emmitt." There's such darkness in how he says the name, such raw hatred, that my heart does this weird flutter-skip thing in my chest—the same feeling I got when he stood between Emmitt and me at the boutique. His fingers trace the soft fabric as his lips curve into that dangerous half-smile that makes my heart race. "Innocent on the surface... but we both know better, don't we?"

My face flushes at his words. I want to ask him what he means—Iaminnocent, aren't I? But the look in his eyes leaves the question stuck in my throat.

"Try it on," he says, his voice dropping an octave lower. When I don't move immediately, his eyes darken. "Now."

I grab the dress with trembling fingers, but then my brain catches up with what's actually happening. I'll need to change. In front of him.Oh god.

"I... um..." I stammer, clutching the dress to my chest like it might protect me from the way he's looking at me.

A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. "Don't worry, little one. I'll turn around." He moves to face the wall. "This time," he adds, and his words slip beneath my skin, past every wall I've built, every defense I thought I had. They nestle somewhere deep inside where I can't dig them out.

My fingers shake as I unzip my photoshoot dress, letting it pool at my feet. Every cell in my body pulses with knowledge of Cohen's presence, just a few feet away, separated only by his turned back. Electricity crackles through the air as I yank the sweater dress over my head, my fingers stumbling over the fabric.

"Done," I whisper, and my voice sounds strange even to my own ears.

He turns, and the look in his eyes makes me feel exposed, like he can see every part of me even though I'm fully dressed. His gaze travels slowly up my body, and I feel myself dissolving under the weight of it, melting from the outside in. When he finally meets my eyes again, there's something intense in his expression that splits me right down the middle—half of me wanting to run, the other half wanting to step closer.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, stepping closer. His hand reaches out, adjusting the collar of the dress. When his knuckles brush against my collarbone, I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping. "So fucking beautiful." Then his gorgeous eyes lift to mine while I breathe in a lungful of his expensive earthy cologne andCohen. "But what do you think?"

Beautiful.

I've heard that word a thousand times, always measured against my mother's impossible standards—beautiful means perfect, untouchable, cold. A word that's never felt like it belonged to me. But when Cohen says it, something cracks open inside me. His version of beautiful shatters every mirror my mother ever held up to me. In his eyes, I exist beyond her carefully drawn boundaries—I'm something wild, untamed. Something that's been clawing beneath my skin all this time, only now waking up.

My fingers run over the fabric and his gaze drops to follow the motion. It takes me three times to swallow and get my voice to work. It does feel nice, and the color is pretty, but... "I don't know," I whisper. "It's hard to choose."

He nods, his dark gaze pinning me in place. "I know. But I want you to try. Pick something that feels good."

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