Page 56 of Unholy Nights

"Don't fall asleep yet," he murmurs. "Food first."

"M'not sleeping," I mumble, even as my eyes drift shut. "Just resting my eyes while I wait for my not-heart-decorated pancakes."

I hear him chuckle, followed by more sizzling and the clink of plates. The next thing I know, his fingers are running through my hair, gently scratching my scalp in a way that makes me want to purr like a cat.

"Little one," he says softly. "Your pancakes are getting cold."

I force my eyes open and nearly moan at what I see. A stack of perfectly golden pancakes sits in front of me, chocolate chips melting and steam rising. They look like something from a magazine—the kind of breakfast my mother would call "common" while secretly taking notes on the presentation.

"These are..." I blink hard, trying to clear the stupid tears that keep wanting to fall today. What is wrong with me? "No one's ever made me anything before."

"That changes now." He slides onto the stool next to me, close enough that our legs touch. "Everything changes now."

The first bite is... I don't even have words. Warm and sweet and perfect, and suddenly I'm starving like I've never eaten before in my life. I devour the first pancake in about thirty seconds flat.

"Slow down," Cohen says, but he's watching me with this intense look that makes my stomach flip for reasons that have nothing to do with food. "They're not going anywhere."

"Says you." I cut into the second pancake, getting chocolate all over my fingers. "My mother could walk in any second and catch me committing carb crimes."

"Let her." His voice goes dark and dangerous. "I'd love to have that conversation."

I pause mid-bite. "You really aren't afraid of her at all, are you?"

"Afraid?" He actually laughs. "Baby, your mother is a paper tiger. All show, no substance. The only power she has is what people give her." His hand slides to the back of my neck, warm and possessive. "And I've never given her any."

I take another bite of pancake to hide how much his confidence affects me. Like, my mother terrifies literally everyone—staff, business partners, probably small children and animals, and especially me—but Cohen just... doesn't care.

"Besides," he adds, his thumb stroking a spot behind my ear that makes my brain go fuzzy. "In seven days, she'll learn exactly how powerless she really is."

I should probably feel bad about that. About how much he clearly wants to destroy my mother. Instead, I just feel... safe. Protected. Loved.

Also really, really sleepy.

"You're falling asleep in your pancakes," he says, sounding way too amused.

"Am not." But even as I say it, my head's getting heavier. "Just... resting between bites."

"Uh huh." He pulls my plate away and I make a noise of protest that would be embarrassing if I had any energy left to care. "Come here."

Before I can ask what he means, he's scooping me up like I weigh nothing. I should probably object—like, I'm a grown woman who can walk—but instead I just curl into his chest, breathing in his cologne and trying not to pass out.

"I can walk," I mumble into his shirt, making absolutely zero effort to prove it.

"I know." He starts up the stairs, carrying me like I weigh nothing. "But I like taking care of you."

"Even when I fall asleep in my food?"

"Especially then." His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. "Though I have to say, your sudden need for naps is interesting."

Something about the way he says it makes me lift my head. "What do you mean?"

But he just kisses my forehead and pushes open my bedroom door. "Nothing, little one. Get some rest."

He lays me on my bed so carefully, like I'm something precious. When he goes to pull away, I grab his shirt. "Stay?”

"As if I could deny you anything." He kicks off his shoes and stretches out beside me, pulling me against his chest. "Sleep. I've got you."

I snuggle closer, tangling my legs with his and pressing my face into his chest. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, his hand stroking up and down my spine in this hypnotic rhythm that makes staying awake impossible.

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