Page 24 of Unholy Nights

I glance back at the rows of clothes, my eyes scanning over the dresses, the sweaters, the skirts... My heart is pounding, and my chest feels tight. The thought of making this decision—anydecision—is completely overwhelming. But Cohen's presence beside me somehow makes it a little easier to breathe.

"Okay," I whisper, my voice so small it’s almost nonexistent.

Something pulls me toward the back of my closet to a section I never visit. There's a dresser back here that I doubt my mother's touched in years.

I know I haven't.

I pull open a drawer, digging through old workout clothes and—oh. My heart skips about five beats when I find a pair of jeans with a tear in the knee and a black hooded sweatshirt.

The fabric is soft in my hands, probably left behind by someone on staff. It feels dangerous and exciting, like I'm finally doing somethingreal. Something that's actually me.

Am I really doing this?

If my mother sees me or Emmitt reports back…

My stomach does a nervous flip as I imagine her reaction. She'll probably come up with some creative new punishment, like making me attendallher business meetings for a month. Or worse—forcing me to do another round of finishing school etiquette classes.

Still…

I think I want this. Need this, even.

There's a spike in my heart rate, like a warning shot fired before the battle begins. To most people, this would be nothing—just picking out clothes for the day.Normalpeople do this every morning without having an existential crisis.

But to me? This is my first real choice. My first step toward figuring out who I am. Who I want to be.

Cohen's eyes go midnight-dark as he takes in my choices, his smile promising all kinds of trouble. "Look at you, already learning to push boundaries," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Try them on."

My fingers tremble around the soft fabric as I nod.

"That's my girl," he purrs. "It's time to learn to take what you want."

As I turn to change, I notice my top drawer's open enough that my cotton and lace underwear are visible. My face flames as I snap my hand out to close it, but Cohen's faster. His hand shoots out, catching a piece of pale pink lace between his fingers.

"Look what you've been keeping from me," he murmurs, voice thick with something that makes my stomach clench. My heart stops as he examines the delicate fabric, treating it like something precious and forbidden. His thumb traces the lace edge in a way that makes me think of how his fingers felt against my collarbone earlier, and something hot and unfamiliar pools low in my belly.

I should be mortified. I should snatch them back, tell him he can't just take my underwear. But watching him handle something so private, so intimately mine... it does something to me I can't explain.

He tucks the lace into his pocket with deliberate slowness, like he's claiming a piece of me. His smoky eyes lock onto mine, daring me to challenge him. "I'm keeping this," he states, no room for argument in his tone. The possessiveness in his voice makes me feel marked somehow, like he's branded me without touching my skin.

I can't speak, and even if I could, what would I say?

"Get changed." The words rumble from his chest as he backs toward the door, his burning eyes pinning me in place. "I'll be right outside."

I wait for him to leave, surprised and maybe a little disappointed that he's not staying this time. The door clicks shut behind him. I can't move for a second. My heart races while my body can't decide what to do with itself. Every logical thought dissolves like sugar in hot tea, leaving behind only this new, impossible wanting that Cohen creates.

I change quickly, hands shaking as I pull on the clothes. The denim feels sowrongagainst my skin after years of designer dresses that I almost laugh. But wrong in the best possible way. Like breaking a rule you never agreed to follow in the first place.

I can taste the smell of him on my tongue. It's like he's infused the air with possibility, with the courage to be someone...different.

God, my mother is going to have an aneurysm when she sees this. The thought should terrify me, and it does, but there's also this tiny spark of satisfaction that makes me want to grin like an idiot.

Am I really going to do this? Risk whatever creative punishment my mother dreams up when she sees me in clothes that aren't perfectly curated for the Delacroix image?

Yes. Yes, I think I am.

When I stepout of my closet, Cohen's burning gaze drags over me, and I swear my pulse trips over itself at the approval in his expression.

“Exquisite," he says. His normally deep voice is a little rough and I think I like that, too.

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