The next morning, Sarisa woke first.
That alone felt like a miracle.
Usually, Lara woke before the sun could even think about showing itself, all warrior instincts and irritating discipline, slipping out of bed like a shadow with muscles. But this morning, the demon beside her was deeply, gloriously asleep.
And Sarisa knew exactly why.
After returning to the hidden house last night, they had not slept. Not immediately. Not even reasonably soon.
The beautiful view over the demon capital, the restaurant, the teasing, the walk beneath the night lamps, all of it had followed them back like sparks clinging to their skin. One kiss had become another.
They had made love until the night lost shape.
Now the morning had arrived quietly, soft and golden behind the curtains, and Lara was out cold.
Sarisa lay on her side and watched her.
Lara slept on her stomach, one arm shoved under the pillow, hair a mess against her cheek. The blanket had slipped low enough to reveal the strong line of her back, the old scars across her shoulders, the dark curve of her waist. In sleep, she looked younger. Less sharp.
Sarisa smiled.
The mating bond hummed softly beneath her skin, quieter now than it had been the first night but still present, warm and steady.
She could feel Lara there, not in thoughts, not exactly, but in the rhythm of her. A golden presence at the edge of awareness. Resting. Safe. Hers.
The word still made Sarisa's chest tighten.
Hers.
She reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from Lara's face.
Lara didn't move.
Sarisa's smile widened.
"Oh," she whispered. "So you can be defeated."
Lara made a vague sound into the pillow, not awake enough to defend herself.
Sarisa stayed there for a while longer, letting herself have the sight. The quiet. The impossible domesticity of it. No maids waiting with wedding dresses.
No mother deciding her future over tea. No Vaelen smiling with careful patience. Just Lara, asleep in their hidden house, and a morning that belonged to them.
Eventually, though, Sarisa's stomach reminded her that romance was not food.
She glanced toward the door.
Lara had cooked for her several times now. Breakfasts, dinner, lunch. She had fed Sarisa with that infuriating competence and looked far too pleased every time Sarisa praised her. It seemed only fair that Sarisa return the gesture.
How hard could breakfast be?
Very, a traitorous part of her mind suggested.
Sarisa ignored it.
She slipped carefully out of bed, moving slowly so the floorboards would not creak too loudly. She gathered Lara's shirt from the chair and pulled it on, then paused, looking at the sleeping woman once more.
Still asleep.
Good.
Sarisa left the room barefoot, with the determination of a queen and the culinary experience of a decorative spoon.
The kitchen waited, innocent and unsuspecting.
She had watched Lara use it. That had to count for something. There was the stove. There were pans. There was bread. Eggs. Fruit.
A small jar of butter. Some green things in a bowl that were probably herbs and not poisonous. Sarisa tied her hair back with a ribbon she found near the windowsill and rolled up the sleeves of Lara's shirt.
"Breakfast," she murmured to herself. "Simple."
The first issue was fire.
The stove, apparently, did not simply obey because she looked at it.
Sarisa found the little ignition rune Lara had used the day before and pressed it. Nothing happened. She pressed it again, harder. The stove coughed a spark.
"Do not be difficult with me," Sarisa told it.
The stove, perhaps recognizing authority, finally bloomed with flame.
Sarisa felt triumphant.
That triumph lasted until she cracked the first egg directly onto the counter instead of into the bowl.
She stared at it.
The egg stared back, runny and judgmental.
"Well," she said, "that was practice."
The second egg made it into the pan, though with some shell. Sarisa fished the shell out with a fork and told herself texture was rustic. Lara liked rustic. Probably.
The bread was easier. Bread simply needed to be heated. She put several slices into another pan with butter, because butter made everything better.
The butter melted beautifully. The bread sizzled. The smell was promising enough that Sarisa began to relax.
Then she turned back to the eggs and realized one side had gone brown.
Not golden.
Brown.
"Fine," she said. "Lara likes things cooked."
She tried to stir them. They resisted. She scraped harder, then realized the bread was no longer sizzling but smoking.
Sarisa spun around.
The toast was black.
Not lightly burned. Not charmingly crisp. Black.
A ribbon of smoke curled toward the ceiling with slow, theatrical betrayal.
"Oh no."
She grabbed the pan handle with her bare hand, yelped, dropped it back onto the stove, then snatched a cloth and tried again.
The bread slid halfway out of the pan and onto the floor, leaving a trail of crumbs and ash.
The smell arrived fully then.
Burnt toast, offended eggs, and wounded pride.
From the bedroom came a heavy thud.
Sarisa froze.
A second later Lara appeared in the kitchen doorway, completely naked except for the blanket wrapped haphazardly around her hips, hair wild, eyes half feral with sleep and alarm.
"What's burning?"
Sarisa stood in the middle of the kitchen wearing Lara's shirt, holding a smoking pan in one hand, with one blackened slice of bread near her foot and another clinging stubbornly to the pan like a corpse refusing burial.
There was a pause.
Lara looked at the stove.
Then at the floor.
Then at Sarisa.
Sarisa lifted her chin with the last surviving shred of dignity. "Breakfast."
Lara blinked.
Then, very slowly, her panic transformed into something much worse.
Amusement.
"Sarisa."
"Do not laugh."
"I'm not."
"You are about to."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
Lara pressed her lips together.
Her shoulders shook once.
Sarisa pointed the pan at her. "Lara."
That was a mistake.
A little puff of smoke rose dramatically from the pan between them.
Lara lost the battle completely.
She burst out laughing, loud and helpless, one hand grabbing the doorframe as if she needed support.
The sound filled the kitchen, warm and shameless and far too delighted for Sarisa's liking.
Sarisa glared at her.
"I wanted to cook for you."
That made Lara's laughter soften at once, though it did not disappear completely. She crossed the room carefully, avoiding the murdered toast on the floor, and took the pan from Sarisa's hand.
"You did cook," Lara said, looking into it. "Technically."
"Do not say technically."
"It has heat damage. That counts."
Sarisa narrowed her eyes. "I hate you."
"No, you don't." Lara set the pan aside, then caught Sarisa gently by the waist. "You tried to make me breakfast?"
Sarisa looked away. "You always do things for me."
The room quieted.
Lara's hands softened where they held her.
"And you thought burning down my kitchen would be romantic?"
Sarisa snapped her gaze back. "I did not burn it down."
"Not for lack of effort."
"Lara."
Lara smiled, but it was tender now. "Thank you."
Sarisa blinked. "For the disaster?"
"For wanting to take care of me." Lara leaned in and kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose. "Even if the toast died bravely."
Sarisa tried not to smile.
Failed.
"It was the stove's fault."
"Of course."
"And the egg was fragile."
"Terribly fragile."
"And the bread was dramatic."
"Like everyone in this house."
Sarisa laughed then, despite herself, leaning into Lara's warmth.
Lara kissed her properly, still smiling against her mouth. "Go sit down, my beautiful menace. I'll rescue breakfast."
Sarisa looked toward the ruined pan, then back at Lara. "You're very awake now."
"Yes." Lara sighed, glancing at the smoke still curling lazily toward the ceiling. "Nothing wakes a woman faster than the smell of her mate trying to assassinate toast."
Sarisa shoved her lightly.