Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Anastasia
Sleep came eventually, though it felt more like a truce than rest. All night, I was aware of him—the heat of his body, the rhythm of his breathing, the careful distance he maintained like a promise kept.
Morning light now spills across the sheets, warm and indecently cheerful. For a blissful second I forget why my heart is racing—then I spot the empty space beside me, the faint dent in the pillow that still smells like sandalwood and sin.
Nyxx is gone.
Relief and disappointment wrestle in my chest until both collapse into a shaky laugh. I survived sharing a bed with a half-naked rock star without combusting. Barely.
I sit up, shove my hair out of my face, and glance toward the kitchen. The cottage is quiet except for the distant glug of a coffee pot. He must’ve started it before heading outside. A picture of him doing yoga naked in the woods surrounding our cottage flashes through my mind.
Down Ana. One night of sleeping next to a rock god and you’ve lost your mind.
Maybe I should do something useful before he comes back. Like breakfast.
The problem: I know almost nothing about cooking.
I pad into the kitchen, surveying my options—bread, eggs, a pan that looks like it’s seen battle. How hard can toast and eggs be? People do it all the time without supervision.
Five minutes later, smoke curls from the pan, and I’m waving a dishtowel like a flag of surrender.
“That’s a bold aroma for first thing in the morning,” a familiar voice drawls.
I whirl to find Nyxx leaning against the doorway, bare-chested, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair still damp from a shower. Sunlight hits his intoxicating eyes just right—blue and gold flashing like they’re laughing at me.
“I was attempting breakfast,” I announce primly. “Apparently, it’s an acquired skill.”
“Looks more like you were trying to summon a demon.” He saunters in, plucks the spatula from my hand, and surveys the carnage with exaggerated gravity. “You know, most people start smaller. Like cereal.”
“I don’t do cereal. It gets soggy.”
“Tragic,” he says solemnly, reaching past me to kill the burner. The move brings him close enough that the heat of his skin ghosts across my bare arm. I freeze, breath tangling in my throat.
He notices, of course. His smile softens, losing the teasing edge. “Relax, princess. I’m just rescuing your cookware.”
“I’m perfectly relaxed,” I lie.
“Sure,” he says, and the smile that follows is wicked enough to make my knees reconsider their purpose.
We manage breakfast together—his hands guiding mine as I scramble eggs under his amused supervision. It shouldn’t feel intimate, but it does. Every brush of his fingers sends tiny sparks skittering across my skin.
When we finally sit down with two slightly overcooked omelets, he raises his fork like a toast. “To culinary miracles.”
I roll my eyes but clink my fork against his anyway. “To not burning down the cottage.”
For a moment, it’s easy. Comfortable. Like we’ve done this a hundred times.
Then, my phone buzzes on the table. One glance at the caller ID knots my stomach.
Nyxx catches the change on my face immediately. “Everything okay?”
“I—yeah. I should take this.”
He nods, starts clearing plates, giving me space. I step toward the window and answer, bracing myself.
“Hello, Mother.”