Page 25 of Unholy Nights

In fact, IknowI like it if the way a flood of emotions is bursting through my entire body is any indication. It's like someone just cranked up everything to eleven.

I actuallystood upfor myself, made my own choice, and Cohen doesn’t just accept it—he approves. A grin slowly spreads across my face, bigger than any I’ve ever had in my life. The sudden urge to giggle like a lunatic hits me and I have to bite my lip to keep it in so I don’t look like I’m insane in front of my stepfather.

It's weird how something so simple can feel like so huge. I’m wearingjeans.It’s not like I shaved my head or something. But maybe the world is bigger than my mother's endless rulebook ofperfect, always camera-readybehavior.

Wouldn’t that be something?

For exactly five seconds, I let myself enjoy that little bit of pride. Cohen saw me—actuallysawme—and didn't immediatelytell me I was wrong. If anything, that look in his eye was so veryright.But because the universe has a sick sense of humor, reality comes crashing back like a bucket of ice water when I remember why I changed in the first place.

Emmitt.

That stupid meeting.

My stomach twists up like a pretzel as I try to think of literally anything that can get me out of doing this planning meeting. It doesn’t matter, though. There isn’t an excuse in the world that will go over well with my mother, and if I don’t do her bidding, she’ll make life even worse than it is now.

Starving me for days. Taking away my laptop and phone. Locking me in my room. Or worse? Forcing me to go to the office andpeople.

God, I really don't want to do this.

The way Emmitt looks at me is like he’s trying to peel me out of my skin with his eyes, like I’m something he wants to sink his teeth into.

I catch myself biting my lip again—a habit Mother absolutely hates—and look up at Cohen. His steady gaze is helping me not freak out. He must see the way my confidence crumbles, replaced by that gnawing sense of dread creeping back in—how my shoulders slump and my eyes drop, as if I could make myself small enough to disappear. Ugh. So muchugh.

“I don’t want to go,” I whisper, finally voicing the fear that’s been gnawing at me all morning.

His hand finds my lower back, but instead of pulling me against him, his fingers glide up until they reach the back of my neck, his thumb brushing against my skin. Something electric skates down my spine, leaving me lightheaded and a little off-balance, like stepping onto solid ground after hours on a rocking boat. It isn’t fear—it’s the strange relief of being noticed, of being steady when I didn’t even realize I was drifting.

"I know, little one," he murmurs, his voice cutting through the mess in my head. His eyes are locked on mine as he watches me, and the intensity in them makes me suck in a breath. "But you won’t be alone."

His fingers tighten, and a strange tremor rolls through me, like my body’s been rewired and he just flipped a switch I didn’t know existed. Every logical part of my brain is screaming at me to pull away, to tell him to stop looking at me the way he is.

It’s wrong. I may not know exactly what’s happening here, but I know that much. He shouldn’t be looking at me like he’s been in the desert and I’m a glass of ice water.

But I don't say anything. Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch for a heartbeat—okay, maybe a dozen heartbeats—before that annoying inner voice kicks in and I force myself to step back. His hand falls away, and the loss of his touch leaves me feeling strangely empty. Cold.Alone.

The muscle in his jaw ticks, his eyes darkening with barely contained frustration.

"Five minutes," he says, his voice rough. "I need to change. Meet me downstairs."

He turns and leaves before I can respond, and I'm left standing here, trying to catch my breath. I know I keep asking this, but what iswrongwith me? Getting into a car with Cohen seems like the worst idea ever, but here I am, my heart flailing around like it doesn’t know what to do with itself, all because it means more time alone with my stepfather.

"You're playing with fire," I whisper to my reflection when I step into the bathroom to fix my hair, but the girl staring back at me looks... different. Like maybe she wants to get burned.

Or at least a little singed.

When I head downstairs, Cohen's waiting at the front door in the charcoal suit that matches his eyes. The way he looks at memakes my body feel like every cell is suddenly aware it belongs to him.

"Ready?" Cohen loads that single word with enough meaning to fill one of my mother's endless etiquette manuals. The question hovers in the air between us, and somehow I know we've stepped way past discussions about this meeting and into something that feels both terrifying and inevitable.

I nod, my voice lost somewhere in my throat. His presence fills the entryway, and I find myself studying the way his suit fits perfectly across his broad shoulders. He looks so intimidating this way, so… powerful.

It should be a crime to be so handsome. His hair’s a little messy and I wonder what the dark waves feel like. Is it soft? Is his cheek rough under the light dusting of stubble that’s started to shadow his jaw since this morning?

I shouldn't be this drawn to him, but it’s like after my dream I woke up with a brand new fascination I shouldn’t have but can’t—or maybe don’t want to—stop.

A burst of laughter echoes from somewhere in the house, and I stiffen. Cohen steps closer until I have to tilt my head back to hold eye contact. "Your mother's at the office, probably castrating someone for daring to order green and white candy canes instead of red and white," he says as he smirks down at me. "A true emergency.” He chuckles. “She won't find out about the jeans."

I blow out a breath and his eyes drop to my mouth. I ignore how fast my heart is beating. He gestures toward the door, and I follow him outside to his Aston Martin. The black car gleams in the driveway, all sleek curves and barely contained power—a perfect match for its owner.

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