Chapter 8 - Emerald

When I step out 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.

In fact, I know I 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 actually stood up for 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 wearing jeans. It’s not like I shaved my head or something. But maybe the world is bigger than my mother's endless rulebook of perfect, always camera-ready behavior.

Wouldn’t that be something?

For exactly five seconds, I let myself enjoy that little bit of pride. Cohen saw me—actually saw me—and didn't immediately tell me I was wrong. If anything, that look in his eye was so very right. 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 and people.

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 much ugh.

“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 is wrong with 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 me makes 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.

When he opens my door, there’s the lightest brush of his fingers along my hip. It’s so soft, I’d almost think I imagined it, but there’s an explosion of chills across my skin that seems to happen every time his body makes any sort of contact with mine.

The moment he slides in beside me, the space between us feels way too small. My fingers dig into the buttery leather, searching for something solid in a moment that feels anything but. I wiggle in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin, but it just makes him glance my way.

And then I do it. I breathe him in like some kind of idiot, like my body’s decided it has a mind of its own. I try to be sneaky about it, but the smirk playing at his lips tells me I failed.

I press my legs together because of that look. Being this close to him, just the two of us, his scent and just… his presence taking up all the space, I’m getting warm.

Uncomfortable in places I’ve never been uncomfortable.

I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know how to handle it, especially not with him watching me so closely, even as he shifts the car into gear and pulls out of the driveway.

“Emerald.” The way he says my name wraps around me like a velvet ribbon. “Look at me.”

Against my better judgment, I do. His gray eyes lock onto mine, and it’s like staring into the center of a winter storm—cold, endless, and impossible to look away from. The gate opens slowly, but he doesn’t move, his attention fixed on me as though the world beyond the car doesn’t exist.

"If Emmitt touches you," his voice drops into a lethal sort of quiet, "if he so much as breathes too close to you, you tell me. Understand?"

My throat goes dry. "Yes."

"You’re learning.”

His praise sends tingles down my spine, and I have to look away. Outside, snow falls in delicate flakes, making everything look pure and clean. Cohen steers us out into the road and I watch his hands, how big and strong they are as they effortlessly grip the steering wheel and control this expensive piece of machinery.

And then I think about my dreams last night and I shift in my seat again, wishing I didn't react to him the way I do. Heat floods my cheeks as fragments of those dreams flash through my mind—his hands on me, his lips...

Maybe I’m sick, like in the head.

"What are you thinking about?" His question startles me out of my thoughts.

I nibble my lip, studying my hands in my lap. "Nothing important." But my face feels like it's on fire, and I know he can tell I'm lying.

"Try again, little one." His voice has that edge to it, the one that makes my stomach do backflips.

"I..." I swallow hard. "Last night. I had... dreams." The last word comes out as barely a whisper.

Ugh, I can’t believe I’m telling him this.

His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. "What kind of dreams?"

My cheeks burn hotter, if that's even possible. "I don't... I can't..." I shake my head, mortified. How can I tell him about dreams that make me feel so strange, so... warm? I don't know how to describe it to myself let alone explain it to him.

"You can tell me anything." His voice makes me want to confess all my secrets and beg for forgiveness.

"They're embarrassing.”

"Embarrassing how?"

I glance out the window to find we’re stuck at one of the few downtown stoplights, a line of sleek luxury cars idling in front of us—Bentleys, Porsches, the occasional Rolls-Royce—decked out with red bows and wreaths that gleam in the glow of glittering twinkle lights. It’s almost enough to distract me, but then he speaks again, and my stomach does that fluttery thing it’s started doing around him.

"What kind of dreams, Emerald?"

I shouldn’t have said anything. Heat prickles at the back of my neck, crawling down my spine and pooling low in my stomach. I keep my eyes fixed on the dashboard, unable to handle the weight of his gaze. I’m horrible at standing up for myself, and just keeping my mouth shut instead of spilling my greatest shame all over my stepfather is already exhausting. “Just… dreams. Nothing important.”

"Everything about you is important." He drops his grip on the shifter and grabs my hand, weaving our fingers together to hold my hand. Little fireworks detonate under my skin and I can’t stop staring at my smaller fingers folded between his big ones. "Tell me."

Crap, crap, crap.

What if I don’t obey and he takes his hand away?

My heart's beating so fast I wonder if he can hear it. "They're... um..." I swallow hard, twisting the fingers of my right hand in the hem of my hoodie while I tighten my grip on his with my left. I don’t want to chance him pulling away when he hears the words already climbing their way up my throat. "Sometimes you're in my room at night in them."

"Am I?" The interest in his voice makes me shiver. He doesn’t sound grossed out the way I thought he would. "And what do I do in these dreams of yours?"

"You..." My voice comes out barely above a whisper. "You touch me. And whisper things to me in the dark."

Instead of saying anything, he makes a sort of rumble sound in his chest, almost like he’s… satisfied? I find myself gripping his hand tighter where our fingers are intertwined, and his fingers flex against mine like he’s daring me to try to let go.

"And how does that make you feel?" he asks finally, his voice quieter now, pulling the words out of me before I can even think.

I swallow hard, staring at the glowing dashboard lights because looking at him feels impossible. "I don’t know," I admit, the words trembling out of me. "It’s... confusing. I shouldn’t like it. Should I?"

"Why not?" He asks it so simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

"Because it’s you," I whisper, the admission tasting bloody and raw, as if speaking it aloud has carved something out of me.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. His gaze is unrelenting as it holds mine, and I feel stripped bare. It’s like he can see every thought I’m too afraid to admit. "And do you think that changes the way I see you?" he asks, his voice dipping lower.

I shake my head, gripping my knees, my palms damp against the fabric of my jeans. The stoplight glows red, holding us in this unbearable pause, and all I want is for it to change so I can breathe again. "I don’t know what to think," I admit, my chest tightening. "I just—" The words catch, breaking apart before I can finish.

His fingers shift against mine, firm but careful, like he knows exactly how to steady me without saying a word. "There’s nothing wrong with those feelings, Emerald," he says. "They’re natural. Beautiful. You don’t have to fight them."

There’s this weird pull in my chest that I don’t know how to deal with as I sag back into the plush leather and stare at our joined hands. I don’t even bother trying to look at him, but I feel his eyes burning into me, stripping away my resistance. "But... I shouldn't feel this way. It's not... I mean, I don't know how to..."

"That's why you have me." His thumb strokes over my knuckles, leaving tingles behind. "To teach you everything you need to know."

From the moment he married my mother and moved into our home last year, Cohen’s been the only one to see past my perfect daughter act. The only person who makes me feel real instead of like some mindless wind-up doll.

The only one I want, even though I shouldn't.

I don’t bother saying anything about him teaching me. I’m not sure what he means and I’m too afraid to ask.

His fingers tighten around mine, the car swerving slightly before he corrects it. When I dare to peek at him, the starvation in his expression makes my stomach flutter with butterflies made of fire.

Why is he looking at me like that?

"How did it make you feel? Dreaming of me?" The roughness in his voice ripples through me, scattering every thought I try to hold onto and leaving me with nothing but the wild, aching pull of him.

I should lie. Should tell him I was horrified. Instead, I whisper the truth: "Alive."

The sound he makes is pure animal, and he slides our joined hands higher up on my thigh, his grip possessive as my skin catches fire underneath it. The heat of his touch burns through my jeans.

"Good," he says, and that single word drips with so much he doesn’t say.

We sit in a silence so charged it feels like it could spark if either of us dared to speak. His hand is wrapped around mine and pressed against my thigh the entire time, his thumb rubbing circles into my flesh. As we pull up to Emmitt's building, I realize something that should terrify me:

I think I may be falling into darkness, and I don't want anyone to catch me but him.