Caveman Instincts
Cohen
If there were a world championship for sleep deprivation, I’m pretty sure Sloane and I would’ve taken home the gold.
I should be wrecked.
I should be a zombie dragging myself toward the coffee machine, begging for mercy.
And yet—as I watch Sloane in the lodge’s breakfast room—I feel like the damn king of the world.
She’s wearing black leggings and an oversized baby-blue sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, exposing the exact spot on her neck where I left a mark last night—one I hope is still visible.
Her hair is half up in a messy pencil bun, she’s not wearing a hint of makeup, and she looks devastating.
Easily the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Especially because I know exactly why she has those faint purple shadows under her eyes.
And I know why she’s moving with that tiny stiffness, like every muscle in her body was pushed past its limit.
We didn’t sleep.
At all.
We talked a little, groaned a lot, and “evened the score” at least three times. Maybe four.
I lost count around four a.m., when she shoved me against the headboard and made me forget my own name.
“Stop looking at me like I’m breakfast, Becker,” she mutters without turning around, drowning her black coffee in what has to be an illegal amount of sugar.
“I can’t help it,” I say. “I’m still hungry.”
She turns, shoots me a look that’s half warning and half promise, and hands me a cup.
“Drink. We need caffeine if we want to survive Aunt Tina.”
I scan the room. Apparently, we’re not the only ones who had… an eventful night.
The Elm Hollow Mountain breakfast hall looks like the set of a survivor movie.
At the table by the window sit Roxanne and Dave. They look like they got hit by a freight train. Roxanne’s hair—usually a lion’s mane—resembles an electrified bird’s nest. Dave has scratches down his back, visible above the collar of his T-shirt.
They’re arguing under their breath about jam, but they’re holding hands under the table with a grip tight enough to turn both their knuckles white.
“I’d bet a hundred chocolates they absolutely destroyed their room,” Sloane whispers.
“I’m not taking that bet,” I reply. “I’m pretty sure those noises came from their chalet.”
A few tables down, Lucy and Lars sit together.
Lucy is glowing, even though she yawns every three seconds. Lars watches her eat cereal like she’s the eighth wonder of the world.
Our eyes meet. Lars gives me a curt nod—the universal male salute that means:
I know you’re as exhausted as I am, brother. Respect.
I nod back. I like them. They’re genuine. And Lucy is the only person here—besides Sloane—who doesn’t look at me like I’m either an alien or an ATM.
We move down the buffet line.
I dive straight for the bacon but load a plate with pastries for Sloane. She needs sugar—and judging by how much she dumped into her coffee, and how she inhaled her (and my) giant marshmallow last night… yeah. The woman loves sweets.
To confirm it, she adds an extra croissant to the plate and flashes me a mischievous little smile.
As we walk, we stumble onto a scene at the scrambled-eggs station worthy of popcorn.
The stars? Silas and Daisy.
The vet looks like a man who’s lost the will to live—but not the will to drink coffee. He’s leaning against the counter, eyes closed, beard untrimmed, gripping his mug like it’s the Holy Grail.
Daisy, meanwhile, is a tornado of energy. She’s wearing a shirt that’s definitely men’s, leggings, leg warmers, and she’s trying to convince Silas to eat a heart-shaped waffle.
“Come on, Si! You need sugar! You’re grumpy!”
“Daisy,” he growls without opening his eyes, “if you put that thing near my face again, I’ll bite you.”
“Promise?” she shoots back, smirking.
Silas cracks one eye open, looks at her, and barely manages not to smile.
Sloane snickers beside me.
“I think we should adopt them,” she murmurs. “They’re as disastrous as we are.”
“I like him,” I admit. “He looks like a man who understands the pain of dealing with a woman who never sits still.”
Sloane elbows me in the ribs.
We head for the tables. Lucy spots us instantly.
“Sloane! Over here!”
Sloane smiles—a real, relaxed smile—and we walk over.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she says, settling beside the florist and biting into a slice of strawberry-cream tart.
Lars gives me another nod as he takes a massive bite of an apple.
I return it—and start demolishing my bacon.
Sloane
“Good morning, people! I hope you’re hungry, because I basically robbed the buffet!”
A tornado of joy and chaotic sunshine crashes into our table.
Daisy.
I’ve talked to her only once—when I went with Ivy to bring Leo to Silas—but she was instantly likable.
Behind her, Silas trudges forward like a man walking to the gallows. His beard is scruffy, his hair a disaster, and he’s balancing two overloaded trays with the hollow expression of someone quietly questioning every life decision he’s ever made.
“Sit, Daisy,” he grumbles as he sets the plates down. “And stop vibrating.”
“I’m not vibrating! I’m radiating joy!” she fires back, stealing a strip of bacon before he can even sit.
Silas sighs and drops into his chair.
“Someone kill me,” he mutters into his coffee.
But when Daisy gets powdered sugar on her nose, he’s the first to reach out with a napkin and wipe it away—so natural, so gentle, I can’t help but smile.
It’s a sweet moment.
Lucy blushes every time Lars passes her the butter.
Cohen sits beside me, his thigh pressed against mine, his hand occasionally brushing my back in a possessive way that makes me feel… grounded.
For a second, I let myself pretend it could be this simple.
That we could just be a bunch of misfits in a mountain lodge, eating breakfast and laughing.
Then a shadow falls over the table.
A shadow that smells like expensive perfume and judgment.
Tiffany.
Ugh.
She stops behind my chair, done up like she’s heading for a red carpet. Brent trails behind her like a leashed puppy, already scrolling through emails.
“Sloane,” she says in that syrupy-fake voice of hers. “I see you went with the… Sunday Desperate Housewife look. Bold choice. Very… authentic.”
I feel Cohen tense beside me.
I’m about to fire back with something sharp and colorful, but he beats me to it.
His arm slides around my shoulders, pulling me in, and he kisses my temple—loudly.
“Actually,” Cohen says, meeting Tiffany’s gaze with a lazy, self-satisfied smile, “it’s not a style choice. It’s my fault. I didn’t let her out of bed until ten minutes ago. And trust me—it was worth being late.”
The entire table erupts.
Silas lets out a low, appreciative whistle.
Daisy claps like she’s at a fireworks show.
Tiffany turns purple, sputters like a goldfish, and drags poor Brent away toward the Perfects’ table.
I look at Cohen.
He winks.
My heart does a stupid little somersault.
I feel… protected.
It’s strange.
I feel wanted.
And then everything collapses.
From the entrance of the dining hall, a high-pitched, grating laugh slices through the air.
I turn—and my stomach drops.
Sarah.
She walks in on Joe’s arm.
And Sarah is… everything I’m not.
She’s wearing a neon-pink sports set that looks spray-painted onto her body. Brunette. Fake lashes a mile long. Lips so overfilled they look seconds away from popping.
But the first thing I notice—what makes me instinctively tug my oversized sweater tighter—is her chest.
Huge.
Surgically perfect.
Displayed like a trophy.
Joe’s words echo in my head, from the night my world cracked:
She’s… a bomb, Sloane. I couldn’t resist.
Back then, I thought bomb meant willing to do anything.
Seeing them now—seeing how he holds her, how he shows her off like a prize—
it hurts.
It hurts because it reminds me that I wasn’t enough.
They head for the buffet.
But Joe stops.
His eyes sweep the room…
and land on us.
On me.
He sees Cohen beside me.
And instead of ignoring us, he changes direction.
He walks straight toward our table.
“Oh no,” I whisper, freezing.
Cohen feels it. His hand stills on my back. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t get the chance to answer.
Joe is already there.
He’s wearing that good-boy smile—the one with dimples. The one that fooled me and only me.
(My father hated him. My mother always said I deserved better. My friends still keep his photo taped to a dartboard.)
“Sloane!” he says, like he’s genuinely pleased. “We didn’t get the chance to say hi.”
Sarah stops beside him, chewing gum, giving me a slow once-over drenched in disdain.
“Hi, Joe. There—we said hi.”
My voice is ice.
“You look… tired,” he says, tilting his head in fake concern. “Sure you can keep up? You were never very good with stress.”
The subtext is clear.
You’re pretending. You’ll crack.
Cohen’s hand tightens on my shoulder like a steel trap.
He doesn’t know who Joe is.
He doesn’t know what he did to me.
And I can’t tell him.
Because if I tell him Joe is my ex—the one who cheated on me—
I’ll have to tell him when.
I’ll have to tell him that the night I met Cohen at The Aureum, dressed as Lucifer, making the most reckless choice of my life…
I was there to forget Joe.
And if Cohen finds that out?
He’ll think he was a replacement.
A rebound.
A revenge stunt.
And it will ruin whatever this is becoming.
“Who’s your friend, Sloane?” Cohen asks, his voice calm—the kind of calm that comes before a hurricane.
Joe looks at him.
Challenge sparks in his eyes.
“Joe,” he says, not offering a hand. “An old family friend. We basically grew up together.”
A lie.
A deliberate shrinking of what we were.
Or worse—his way of claiming a closeness Cohen doesn’t have.
“Really?”
Cohen stands.
He’s taller than Joe.
Broader.
More everything.
He steps in front of me, blocking Joe’s view of my body.
“Well, Joe,” he says with a smile that holds zero warmth, “I’m Cohen. Sloane’s partner. And if she looks tired, trust me—it’s not from stress.”
He wiggles his eyebrows in that infuriating, perfect way and—
Oh my God. Cohen.
Sarah giggles. “Oooh, spicy! I love it!”
I’m shocked she even caught the implication.
Joe’s smile vanishes.
“Sure, Becker,” he says, rebuilding his arrogance piece by piece. “I’ve read the papers. Let’s see how long your… commitment lasts.”
He throws one last look at me over Cohen’s shoulder.
It’s meant to warn me.
But it just looks pathetic.
“Careful, Sloane. You know things never last for you.”
Then he drags Sarah—still giggling—back toward their table.
I stay frozen, hands wrapped around my now-cold coffee.
Things never last for you.
He used to say that when we fought.
I remember the last one.
When he justified cheating by making me feel small.
Boring.
Insufficient.
A warm hand covers mine.
Big. Rough. Steady.
Cohen.
I turn to him.
He’s still standing, every muscle locked tight, jaw ticking with restrained rage.
“That wasn’t a family friend,” he says quietly. “Not even close.”
“No,” I whisper. “It wasn’t.”
“And he wasn’t just some guy,” he continues, voice darkening. “He looked at you like he knows exactly how to hurt you.”
He leans down, invading my space. His fingers tip my chin up, forcing my gaze to his.
Storm-dark hazel eyes.
“Who is he, Sloane?”
“He’s… complicated. He’s the past.”
“The past shouldn’t make you shake like this.”
His thumb brushes my cheekbone—a possessive touch that clashes with the edge in his voice.
“Tell me one thing. Is it over? Whatever that was—is it over?”
I meet his gaze.
I see jealousy there—but more than that, I see worry.
A man trying to identify the threat so he can protect me.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He searches my face for a long, loaded second.
Then he nods.
“Good,” he murmurs, his grip softening. “Because now you’ve got me. And that idiot has no idea who he just picked a fight with. If he looks at you like that again, I’ll rip his eyes out.”
It’s a real threat.
Primal.
Wildly inappropriate.
And somehow, the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.
I want to tell him everything.
But humiliation and fear knot in my chest.
Before I can decide, the speakers explode with static.
“ATTENTION, LOVE BIRDS!”
Aunt Tina’s voice blasts through the hall.
“I hope you’re fueled up, because in fifteen minutes I want everyone in the Main Hall! Our first couple challenge—Domestic Harmony—is about to begin!”
Her tone drops into a delighted purr.
“They say cohabitation is the graveyard of love. Well, today we find out! Get ready to test your patience, communication skills, and your ability not to scream in small enclosed spaces!”
Silas groans and drops his head on the table.
“Domestic harmony. Perfect. Someone’s gonna bleed.”
Daisy claps, thrilled.
Cohen doesn’t take his eyes off me.
The tension between us is still there—just paused.
“Come on,” he says, offering his hand. “We’ve got a challenge to win.”
I take it.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
As we leave the dining hall, fingers intertwined, his shoulder brushing mine, I can feel Joe’s gaze on my back.
But this time—
with Cohen’s hand in mine and his body warm beside me—
the past feels a little less terrifying.
And the future, as messy as it is, feels a hell of a lot more exciting.