Page 69 of Unholy Nights

I step into the space, seeing it through her eyes—the way the sun paints the hardwood floors gold, how the lake shimmers beyond the windows. But mostly I see her, glowing with life and possibility, finally free to be who she was meant to be.

Someone I’ll get to watch her discover.

She moves to the window, pressing her palm against the glass. "I can breathe here," she whispers.

And that's everything, isn't it? Not the revenge or the violence or even the victory. Just her, finally able to fill her lungs without fear. Finally able to exist without needing permission.

Without being afraid.

I wrap my arms around her from behind, and together we watch the sun sink toward the mountains, painting our empty house in shades of promise.

Tomorrow we'll fill these rooms with furniture and color and life. But for now, this is enough—her head against my shoulder, her dreams taking shape in the gathering dark, and the quiet certainty that everything led us exactly where we were meant to be.

Two years later…

Gray winter light seeps through our bedroom windows, and I can't stop staring at my husband. Even in sleep, he's got one arm draped possessively over my huge belly, like he needs to touch us even in his dreams. The baby kicks against his palm, doing his normal morning stretches, and I swear he already knows when his daddy's close. Just like his big sister.

Speaking of Ember...

"Mama!" Her voice crackles through the baby monitor, followed by that happy babbling that still makes my chest feel too full. At eighteen months old, she's already figured out exactly how to get whatever she wants from her daddy. Not that it's hard - Cohen would give her the moon if she asked for it.

He stirs the second he hears her voice, those storm-gray eyes that still make my stomach do backflips blinking open. "I'll get her."

"Wait." I catch his hand before he can move. "Stay with me a little longer."

His palm spreads wider over my stomach where his son grows, and that familiar darkness I crave fills his eyes. Thesemoments feel sacred somehow—like time stops and lets me just exist here with him, with the family we made. Sometimes I still can't believe this is real, that I get to have this kind of love. That I escaped my mother and get to live for me now.

"What are you thinking about?" Cohen's voice is rough with sleep as he props himself up on one elbow.

"How happy I am." I gesture to my huge belly. "Even if I look like I swallowed one of those giant snow globes from the mall."

He laughs, rolling to pin me against the mattress, careful of my stomach. "Did you actually set foot in a mall?"

"Shut up." But I'm grinning because he knows how much I love doing normal things now. His lips find that spot behind my ear that still makes me shiver. "You're beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. "Especially carrying my son."

"Mama! Dada!" Ember's voice grows more insistent, and I laugh as Cohen groans.

"Your daughter's awake," I tell him, pushing at his chest.

"Our daughter," he corrects, stealing one more kiss before letting me up. "And she's definitely got your impatience."

"Hey!" I smack his chest, pretending to be offended, but he's right. These days I can barely wait to experience everything life has to offer - all the messy, real moments I was never allowed before. The thought makes me smile as I throw on one of his t-shirts over my sleep shorts and pile my hair into what might generously be called a messy bun. Two years ago, the thought of anyone seeing me like this would have given me anxiety attacks. Now? Now I know I'm loved exactly as I am, bedhead and all.

Cohen follows me down the hall to Ember's room, and my heart melts at the sight that greets us. Our little girl stands in her crib, dark curls wild around her sweet little face, beaming at us with bright eyes. She’s thrown every one of her stuffed animals out into her room.

"Up!" She reaches for Cohen with grabby hands, and he scoops her into his arms like she's made of spun glass and pure magic. Which, to be fair, she kind of is.

"Good morning, little flame." He presses kisses to her cheeks while she giggles. The sight of my dangerous, powerful husband completely undone by our daughter still takes my breath away.

The first time he held her, I bawled my eyes out because the cuteness actually hurt.

"Tree!" Ember demands, pointing toward the hallway. "Tree tree tree!"

"Someone's excited for Christmas," I laugh, following them downstairs. Our daughter bounces in Cohen's arms, her dark curls, the same color as mine, bouncing with every movement.

The tree comes into view and my chest tightens with pride. It's nothing like the ridiculous masterpieces my mother used to demand. Instead, every branch holds ornaments I made myself or with Cohen and Ember. There are lopsided salt dough stars, paper chains in mismatched colors, and pinecones covered in more glitter than pine. They're terrible, if I'm being honest. Martha Stewart would have a stroke.

But they're mine. Every crooked one represents another choice I got to make for myself.

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