Nyxx grins as he heads for the door. “Challenge accepted, princess. Sweet dreams.”
As the door closes behind him, I sink onto the bed, my head spinning. How has my peaceful retreat turned into this nightmare? I can hear Nyxx moving around in the living room, humming some atrocious rock tune.
I set the bookend within easy reach and drop onto the mattress with a groan. So much for peace and quiet. Instead of inspiration, I’ve got a swaggering rock god in my living room and a headache the size of Carnegie Hall.
Through the wall, his humming drifts on—a careless, haunting thread of melody that refuses to fade. I roll onto my side, tug the blanket over my head, and tell myself I’m not listening.
And just like that, the night has a soundtrack.
Chapter Two
Nyxx
The first thing that registers in my groggy mind is the incessant chirping of birds. Way too cheery for this ungodly hour. My eyes crack open, immediately assaulted by sunlight streaming through gaps in the curtains. Groaning, I bury my face in the pillow, trying to remember why my back feels like a marching band pummeled it. Then it hits me—right. The cottage. The uptight flutist. The couch from hell.
“Good morning, Mr. Night.”
The crisp, proper voice jolts me fully awake. Blinking away sleep, my gaze focuses on the prim figure of Anastasia Ashcroft, standing over me like some disapproving schoolmarm.
She’s pulled her blonde hair into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. She’s wearing a pressed blouse and slacks, looking ready for a board meeting rather than a casual day in a forest cottage.
“Jesus, Ana. What time is it?” My voice is little more than a croak.
Her lips purse. I’m not sure whether it’s due to the nickname, the curse, or the fact I’m breathing air on planet Earth. “It’s half past seven, and we have matters to discuss.”
Rubbing my eyes, a yawn escapes. “Can it wait until I’ve had coffee?”
“I’m afraid not,” she says, her tone brooking no argument. “We need to establish some ground rules if we’re to cohabitate peacefully until this situation is rectified.”
Pushing myself into a sitting position, the blanket falls away, revealing my bare chest. Anastasia’s eyes widen slightly before she quickly averts her gaze. I catch the flicker before she looks away. Yeah, I saw that.
“Rule number one,” she continues, her voice a touch higher than before. “Quiet hours are from 9 PM to 9 AM. No music, no television, no phone calls during that time.”
She reels it off like she’s reading commandments. I’m tempted to break every single one. “Whoa, hold up there, princess,” I interrupt, swinging my legs off the couch. “You can’t just dictate rules without any input from me.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m merely suggesting reasonable guidelines for harmonious cohabitation.”
“Harmonious?” A laugh escapes me. “There’s nothing harmonious about a twelve-hour quiet period.Someof us do our best work at night.”
Anastasia’s posture stiffens even more, if that’s possible. “Well, some of us have careers, not a soundcheck masquerading as art.”
Her words hit sharper than they should. Arrogant. Dismissive. God, she’s got no idea what it costs to bleed for a song. I tell myself I don’t care—but something hot and mean twists in my chest, anyway.
Needing to move, I stand and give a long, deliberate stretch, just to see how long it takes her to look. Not long. Her gaze darts south, then jerks up so fast she could’ve pulled a muscle.
“And some of us create chart-topping hits by embracing chaos. Ever heard of creative discord?”
She scoffs. “I highly doubt anything you produce could be considered ‘groundbreaking’ or ‘chart-topping.’”
The words shouldn’t sting, but they do. Maybe it’s the way she says it—like talent only counts if it’s dressed in a tux and performed in a marble hall. I bite back the urge to remind her that chaos built empires while perfection bored crowds to death.
“Six platinum albums say otherwise, sweetheart,” I retort, padding toward the kitchen. “Now, about that coffee…”
Anastasia follows, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Shoes? She’s wound so tight she’s not even going barefoot.
“We’re not finished discussing the rules, Mr. Night.”
“Nyxx,” I correct, rummaging through cabinets for coffee supplies. “And I told you, no serious conversations before caffeine. It’s uncivilized.”
