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

The soup course had been an exercise in auditory torture.

Twenty people ate in a silence so profound that the clinking of silver spoons against porcelain sounded like gunshots.

Aria sat perched on Damien’s lap, her neon green dress pooling over his dark trousers like a toxic spill. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t asked for a chair. In fact, she had settled in, leaning her back against his chest, her legs draped casually over his thigh—directly into Catherine’s personal space.

Catherine, seated to Damien’s right, was trying very hard to eat her consommé without looking left. But her eyes kept darting to them, burning with a mix of puritanical horror and a searing, ugly jealousy. She gripped her spoon so hard her knuckles were white.

That man was supposed to be her husband.

”Main course,” the head footman announced, his voice tight with the strain of pretending this was a normal dinner.

A procession of servers entered, carrying silver platters. They placed plates of rare roast beef, glazed in a rich red wine reduction, in front of the guests. The meat was bloody, dark, and decadent.

Aria reached for her fork.

”No,” Damien said.

His hand shot out, capturing her wrist before she could touch the silverware.

Aria looked back at him, tilting her head until her cheek brushed his shoulder. ”I can’t eat with my mind, Damien. I haven’t unlocked that skill yet.”

”I’ll feed you,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her spine.

He picked up his own knife and fork. With surgical precision, he sliced a piece of the beef. It was perfectly pink in the center, dripping with the dark, glossy sauce.

He didn’t put it on a fork.

He picked up the meat with his fingers.

Catherine gasped audibly. She stared at Damien’s hand, her face flushing a blotchy red. In the Sinclair household, touching food with one’s hands was a sin—but seeing Damien, the cold, untouchable king, dirty his hands for this woman? It was an insult to everything Catherine had been trained to value.

”Damien,” Catherine whispered, her voice trembling with envy masked as disgust. ”That’s... completely unnecessary. Use a fork.”

Damien ignored her. He held the meat to Aria’s lips.

”Open,” he commanded softly.

Aria’s breath hitched. She looked at the piece of beef, then at his long, elegant fingers stained with the rich sauce. She looked at his eyes—dark, dilated, and focused entirely on her mouth.

She parted her lips.

Damien slid the meat into her mouth. His thumb brushed her lower lip, smearing a streak of the reduction across the skin.

Aria chewed slowly, her eyes locked on his. The flavor was intense—savory, salty, metallic—but all she could taste was the intent behind the action.

She swallowed.

Damien didn’t pull his hand away. He held his thumb up, coated in the dark sauce.

”You missed a spot,” he rasped.

Aria understood the assignment. She wasn’t just the wife; she was the Scarlet Queen actress. If they wanted a show, she would give them a blockbuster.

She leaned forward.

She licked it off.

She wrapped her lips around his thumb, sucking the sauce from his skin with a slow, deliberate swirl of her tongue. She closed her eyes, humming softly in her throat—a sound that was unmistakably, obscenely appreciative.

Catherine dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against her plate. She looked at Aria’s mouth on Damien’s hand, and for a second, her mask of beige perfection cracked completely. She looked murderous. She looked like she wanted to stab Aria with the steak knife.

Aria pulled back with a wet pop. She licked her lips, cleaning the last of the glaze.

”Delicious,” she whispered.

Damien watched her mouth, his chest heaving once. His hand under the table squeezed her thigh hard enough to leave a mark.

”More,” he ordered.

He picked up another piece. He fed her again. And again. Each time, Aria ate from his hand like a pampered pet, licking his fingers clean with an enthusiasm that bordered on worship. The wet, slick sounds of her mouth on his skin echoed in the silent room.

”Please,” Catherine choked out, pushing her chair back slightly, tears of rage pricking her eyes. ”I can’t... I can’t watch this. It’s degrading! Damien, how can you let her treat you like a servant? You are the Head of the House!”

”She’s treating me like her husband,” Damien said without looking at her. ”Something you know nothing about, Catherine.”

”Enough!”

Grandfather Sinclair stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. His face was a mask of revulsion.

”Have you no dignity?” the old man roared, shaking his cane at them. ”This is a dining table, not a... a trough! Feeding each other like animals! Using your hands! It is unsanitary! It is vulgar!”

”It’s romantic,” Aria corrected, licking a drop of sauce from the corner of her mouth.

She smiled at the furious patriarch, her eyes bright and unrepentant.

”Oh, Grandpa, don’t be so stiff. We can’t help it. We’re still in the honeymoon phase.”

She leaned back against Damien, nuzzling his neck right over his collar.

”Everything just tastes better when he feeds me. It’s a pheromone thing. You wouldn’t understand; I hear your marriage was... transactional.”

The insult landed like a slap. Grandfather’s mouth worked soundlessly.

”Besides,” Damien added, his voice cool and lethal as he wiped his hand on a linen napkin, not breaking eye contact with his grandfather. ”My wife’s hands are tired. She had a very... gripping afternoon.”

Diana, sitting three seats down, made a noise that sounded like a strangled cat. She buried her face in her wine glass, refusing to look at anyone.

”Sit down, Grandfather,” Damien said, his tone bored. ”You’re ruining her appetite. And if she doesn’t eat, she gets cranky. You won’t like her when she’s cranky.”

”I will not sit!” Grandfather shouted. ”I will not break bread with this... exhibitionism! You are making a mockery of this house!”

”This house is a mockery,” Damien snapped, his patience finally snapping. ”It’s a monument to dead things.”

He stood up, lifting Aria with him as easily as if she were a doll. She wrapped her legs around his waist automatically, the neon dress riding up to reveal a scandalous amount of thigh right in Catherine’s face.

Catherine let out a sob, looking away, unable to bear the sight of Damien claiming another woman so thoroughly.

”We’re done,” Damien announced. ”Send a tray to the East Wing.”

He looked at Lucas, who was staring at Aria’s legs with a mix of horror and longing.

”Stop staring, Nephew,” Damien warned, his voice low. ”Or I’ll pluck your eyes out.”

He turned and walked out of the banquet hall, carrying Aria like spoils of war.

As the doors swung shut behind them, muffling the outraged sputtering of the Elders and Catherine’s weeping, Damien didn’t slow down. He marched toward the stairs, his grip on her tight.

”You enjoyed that,” he accused, though his eyes were burning with approval.

”The sauce was good,” Aria grinned, wrapping her arms around his neck. ”But Catherine’s face was better.”

Damien groaned, breaking into a run up the stairs.

”I am going to fuck you,” he promised. ”Right now.”