After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law

The walk to the dining room was a march of silent, vibrating tension.

Damien kept a grip on Aria’s elbow that was less about guidance and more about containment. He was composed on the surface—jacket buttoned, tie straightened—but the heat radiating off him was palpable. He was a tightly coiled spring, denied his release by a meddling sister.

”You’re walking too fast,” Aria whispered, her heels clicking rapidly on the marble to keep up.

”I’m hungry,” Damien growled, not slowing down. ”And I don’t mean for the food.”

Two footmen bowed and pushed open the double doors to the Banquet Hall.

The room was a cavern of dark wood, candlelight, and hostility. A long table, set for twenty, stretched down the center. It was populated by the extended Sinclair clan—uncles with gout, aunts with facelifts, and cousins who looked like they were waiting for someone to die so they could inherit a watch.

Grandfather Sinclair sat at the head of the table, looking like a judge presiding over an execution.

To his right—the seat of honor reserved for the Head of the House—was an empty chair.

Directly beside that empty chair sat Catherine. She looked smug in her beige dress, her tears dried and replaced by a look of triumphant expectation. She was clearly positioned to spend the entire meal whispering in Damien’s ear.

”We took the liberty of arranging the seating,” Grandfather Sinclair announced, his voice dry as parchment. ”Tradition dictates that unmarried guests sit below the salt.”

He gestured to a single empty chair all the way at the foot of the table, near the drafty service entrance, sandwiched between two teenage cousins who were playing on their phones.

”Miss Vale, you may sit there. Damien, take your place.” He pointed to the seat next to himself.

The room went silent. Every eye turned to Aria in her neon green dress. It was a public demotion. A reminder that in this house, her marriage certificate meant nothing.

Catherine smiled, patting the empty chair beside her. ”Come sit, Damien. I saved your spot.”

Diana was sitting halfway down the table. She didn’t look up. She was staring at her water glass, her face still flushed a blotchy red, looking like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

Damien stared at the chair next to Catherine. Then he looked at the chair at the end of the table.

A cold, terrifying smile touched his lips.

”No,” he said.

He walked to the head of the table. He pulled out the heavy chair at his grandfather’s right hand and sat down, sprawling with an arrogance that made the wood creak.

”Miss Vale needs a chair,” Grandfather snapped. ”Footman, escort her—”

”She doesn’t need a chair,” Damien interrupted.

He patted his thigh.

”Come here.”

Gasps rippled through the room. The aunts clutched their pearls. Lucas, sitting three seats down, dropped his fork.

Aria didn’t hesitate. She walked over to him, her neon green feathers swishing, and sat down squarely on his lap.

She felt it immediately. The hard, heavy ridge of his erection pressed firmly against her through the fabric of his trousers. He hadn’t softened. Not even a little. The friction sent a jolt of heat straight to her core, reminding her exactly where they had left off upstairs.

”Comfortable?” Damien murmured against her ear, his arm wrapping around her waist to lock her in place.

”Very,” Aria whispered back, shifting slightly to get better purchase.

Damien groaned low in his throat, his hand tightening on her hip until it bruised. ”Don’t move like that,” he warned, his voice a rough vibration that only she could hear. ”Unless you want me to flip this table and take you right here.”

Aria went still, a flush rising in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the room temperature.

”This is absurd!” Grandfather Sinclair slammed his hand on the table. ”Have you no shame? Eating dinner with a woman on your lap like... like a pirate in a tavern?”

”My wife is tired,” Damien said calmly, reaching for a breadstick with his free hand. ”She had a... strenuous afternoon. I’m supporting her.”

”Besides,” Aria chimed in, picking up a grape from Damien’s plate and popping it into her mouth. ”We have separation anxiety. It’s a medical condition. If I’m more than two inches away from him, I break out in hives.”

She leaned back, resting her head on Damien’s shoulder, intentionally exposing the dark, violet love bite on her neck to the entire table.

Catherine stared at the mark. Her face crumpled.

”Damien,” Catherine whispered, horrified. ”What is that on her neck?”

”Ownership,” Damien said, not looking at her.

His hand slid under the heavy linen napkin on Aria’s lap. He found the hem of her short neon dress and slid his palm up her thigh, his fingers dancing dangerously close to the black lace he knew was waiting there.

Aria’s breath hitched. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to maintain her composure as his thumb brushed against her inner thigh. ℯℯ𝑙.

Lucas watched them from across the table. He saw the way Damien’s arm flexed as he held her. He saw the way Aria leaned into him, her body molding to his. He saw the glaze in his uncle’s eyes—a look of pure, predatory focus.

He realized, with a sickening lurch in his stomach, that they weren’t acting.

”Pass the salt, Lucas,” Damien said, his eyes locking onto his nephew while his hand squeezed Aria’s thigh under the table.

Lucas flinched. He picked up the silver salt cellar, his hand shaking.

”Y-Yes, Uncle.”

”Damien,” Grandfather tried again, his voice trembling with rage. ”I command you to put her in a chair.”

”And I decline,” Damien said.

He shifted his legs, adjusting Aria so she was straddling his thigh more directly. Aria sucked in a breath as the pressure hit her center—the same spot he had been tormenting upstairs just minutes ago.

”The soup is getting cold, Grandfather,” Damien noted.

He leaned into Aria, his lips brushing her earlobe.

”Because as soon as we’re done here,” he whispered, his voice dripping with dark promises, ”I’m taking you back upstairs. And I’m going to finish what Diana interrupted.”

Aria shivered. She picked up her spoon, her hand trembling.

”Bon appétit,” she managed to say to the table of horrified aristocrats.