Chapter 50

The cold water was supposed to have reset his brain. He had exorcised the feeling out of his body with his own hands.

But seeing the curve of her bare thighs and the way the light caught the damp ends of her hair made his throat go bone-dry.

He'd spent years training his body to endure torture, but apparently, he'd never trained it for Aria Griffin in loungewear.

"You should be in something warmer," he said, his voice a gruff raspy thing that had him awkwardly clearing his throat right after.

Aria nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around, a wooden spoon held like a weapon. "God, Aston! Do you have to teleport everywhere?"

"You just came out of freezing water," he said, stepping into the kitchen and heading for the liquor cabinet with a stiff, detached gait. He didn't look at her. If he looked at her legs again, he was going to lose his mind. He felt like he was walking with the same arm and leg forward. He felt exposed. "If you catch pneumonia and die, I have to explain to Arthur why I let my wife freeze to death in my own house."

Aria didn't retort in that way that only Aria knew how to do. Instead, she set the spoon down and walked over to him.

Aston froze as she reached up, her small hand hovering near his forehead and pressing on it, then checking the side of his neck.

She was inspecting him like a doctor — or a wary animal trainer.

"Why are you so cautious, my lady?" he asked, his eyes tracking her hand with a predatory stillness. "I told you.

I had a shower. I am… fully functional.”

"You were a rabid dog an hour ago," she deadpanned, her eyes searching his. Her eyebrows furrowed a bit. "I'm checking to see if I need to call an exorcist or the vet."

A chuckle escaped his throat before he could intercept it. It was a dry, rusty sound, startling even to him. His body was a traitor. It didn't matter if he was a

demon. In her vicinity, his reflexes were no longer his own.

“Your pupils are still dilated,” she murmured, almost to herself, in worry. Hah. She didn’t need to waste her worry. It was incurable, as long as Aria was in front of him, his pupils would keep expanding.

"It's for you," she said fully out loud, gesturing to the stove.

The scent hit him even harder then. It was a soup, but not the bland, watery stuff he was used to. It was rich, earthy, and fragrant with spices that reminded him of the way she smelled when she was angry — warm and sharp.

"You made this?"

"Don't look so surprised. I can do more than just ruin your basement," she said with her little laugh, turning back to the pot.

Aria was cooking, and it was for him.

He glanced down at his feet. He was still on the ground. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel any part of his body. It was like he was floating.

His lady thought of him, and cooked.

He didn’t think he would ever climb down from his giddiness.

"And for the record... I don't have lovers. Not Liam.

Especially not Devan. I don't like anybody, Aston. I'm too busy trying to keep my life from exploding to audition for a boyfriend."

Aston could almost run around the room. There was a devil on one side of his shoulders and an angel on the other, and they were both too busy jubilating to give him advice on what to say to not come across as a dumb little high school girl.

“Of course, my lady,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. He moved closer to her, resting his elbows against the cabinet and looking intently at her, his brain cataloguing her new look with the same level of importance as a million dollar document. “Who needs boyfriends when you have a husband?”

Aria’s cheeks glowed red as she grinned and rolled her eyes.

Aston was obsessed. Aston was possessed.

He lifted his hand to shift her hair away from her face and behind her ear. She looked at him, and Aston’s heart lurched.

The sound of a familiar pitter-patter saved him from embarrassing his lineage.

The littlest Griffin appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, his hair a chaotic nest.

Asher sniffed the air, his eyes widening.

“Mommy, you’re cooking!”

“Yes, my little bun.”

“Soup?” He padded in, warily looking at Aria and then Aston through half lidded eyes. The boy was meant to be asleep. It seemed like the smell of his mother’s cooking had dragged him out of it.

She nodded and put her hands on her hips. “You should be asleep though. It’s way past your bedtime,” she chided.

The boy pouted. “But I want soup.”

An ugly possessiveness reared its head in Aston’s heart. The soup was his, not Asher’s. Asher wasn’t the one that got poisoned and waterboarded. Aston was.

He almost laughed at himself. Here he was, trying to start mental beef with a four year old.

“I’ll give you a tiny bit, and then you rest it out and go to bed, okay?” She said softly, her voice almost making Aston nod his head along.

What had he come here for? That was right. Alcohol.

As things were going though, he would rather die than not get to taste that soup.

“Okay! Did you make the soup for… the boss?” Asher asked, his voice starting excitedly then lowering at the end of it.

“Yes I did. He went swimming in the middle of the night and now he’s all cold,” Aria shook her head, clicking her tongue.

Asher glanced at Aston again, finding his mother’s words acceptable and coming to sit at the kitchen island.

He couldn’t reach the chair.

But he didn’t say a word.

Aston’s head itched.

He pushed away from the cabinet and walked to the boy, crouching in front of him. “Let me give you a hand.”

“No,” he shook his head decisively.

Aston blinked. “Why? You don’t have to go on missions that would cost you excessive efforts, you know?”

Aston had no idea why he was placating him, but the boy looked at him like he had committed a great offence, and somehow he wanted it to change.

“I’ll let you carry me on one condition.”

The mother and son were the exact same thing. He was the one trying to help them, but they were the ones giving conditions. He bit the inside edges of his lips to curb his grin.

The little man looked quite serious. It would be a travesty if he offended him.

“State your condition.”