Chapter 191
Evelyn's POV
Nine months old
"Ghost says you need to wash your hands first," Julian translated helpfully from where he was standing at the kitchen island, preparing Aria's morning bottle with the same meticulous attention he'd once brought to mission planning.
Webb, who had just walked in carrying yet another peace offering—this time a bag from that Russian bakery and what looked like a new stuffed animal—stared at the cat sitting beside Aria's high chair like a furry guardian. "The cat did not say that."
"He did," Julian insisted, his expression perfectly serious despite the absurdity of the conversation. "Look at how he's looking at you. That's definitely a 'wash your hands, you heathen' look."
I emerged from the bedroom, still tying the belt of my silk robe, my hair damp from the shower Julian had insisted I take while he handled the baby. Our daughter was nine months old now, sitting up on her own and babbling constantly in what sounded like a mixture of English and Russian, and she'd developed very strong opinions about everything from food to toys to who was allowed to hold her.
"Morning, Webb," I said, moving to the coffee maker. "You're early."
"I wanted to catch her in a good mood," Webb said, eyeing Aria warily. "Is she in a good mood?"
Aria, who was gnawing on a teething biscuit with single-minded determination, paused long enough to look at Webb. Her eyes studied him for a long moment before she made a sound that was distinctly disapproving and went back to her biscuit.
"I'm going to say no," Julian said cheerfully. "But points for trying."
Webb sighed, set down his offerings, and headed to the bathroom to wash his hands with the thoroughness of a surgeon prepping for an operation. When he came back, he approached Aria's high chair with exaggerated caution, hands held up in a gesture of peace.
"Hey, princess," he said softly. "Uncle Webb brought you a new friend. Want to see?"
He pulled out the stuffed animal—a plush cheetah with spots that matched the onesie she was wearing—and held it out to her. Aria's eyes widened with interest, her tiny hand reaching out to grab it, and for a moment Webb looked triumphant.
Then she threw it at his face.
"Jesus Christ," Webb muttered, catching the cheetah before it could hit him. "She has her father's arm. And his attitude."
"That's my girl," Julian said proudly, abandoning the bottle to scoop Aria out of her high chair. "Show Uncle Webb who's boss."
"I'm starting to think she's never going to forgive me," Webb said, looking genuinely dejected as he set the cheetah on the counter. "It's been nine months. How long can a baby hold a grudge?"
"As long as it takes," I said, taking pity on him. "But she's getting better. She didn't cry when you walked in this time."
"She threw a stuffed animal at my face."
"Progress is progress," Julian said philosophically, bouncing Aria in his arms. "Right, princess? You're making Uncle Webb work for it, aren't you?"
Aria's response was to grab Julian's nose and squeeze, making him laugh and gently extract his face from her surprisingly strong grip. "You're lucky you're cute," he told her. "If anyone else assaulted me like this, I'd have them thrown off a building."
"Please don't teach our daughter that violence is an acceptable response to minor inconveniences," I said, pouring coffee for myself and Webb.
"I'm teaching her that violence is an acceptable response to people who don't wash their hands before touching her," Julian corrected. "There's a difference."
Webb took the coffee I offered him with a grateful nod, then tried again. "Can I at least give her the bottle? I promise I tested the temperature three times."
Julian considered this, looking down at Aria like he was consulting with her. "What do you think, princess? Should we let Uncle Webb feed you?"
Aria made a sound that could have been agreement or could have been gas—it was hard to tell with nine-month-olds—and Julian handed her over to Webb with only minimal reluctance. Webb took her like she was made of spun glass, settling carefully into one of the chairs at the kitchen table while Julian handed him the bottle.
"Slowly," Julian instructed, hovering like a helicopter parent. "And watch her face. If she starts to fuss, stop immediately."
"I know how to feed a baby," Webb protested. "I've been watching you do it for nine months."
"Watching and doing are different things," Julian said, but he stepped back, giving Webb space while keeping his eyes fixed on Aria like he was ready to intervene at the first sign of distress.
For a moment, everything was perfect. Aria took the bottle without complaint, her eyes fixed on Webb's face with an intensity that was almost unnerving, and Webb started to relax, his expression softening as he watched her drink.
Then she spit the formula directly into his face.
"Goddammit," Webb said, more resigned than angry as he wiped milk from his eyes. "I deserved that."
"You really did," Julian agreed, taking Aria back while trying not to laugh. "But hey, at least she didn't cry this time. That's definite progress."
I handed Webb a towel, biting back my own laughter as he cleaned himself off. "She's testing you," I said. "She wants to see if you're going to give up or keep trying."
"I'm not giving up," Webb said firmly. "I've survived three civil wars, a kidnapping, and that time Julian made me eat raw octopus in Tokyo. I can handle a nine-month-old with attitude."
"That's the spirit," Julian said, settling back into his chair with Aria in his lap. "Just keep showing up, keep being consistent, and eventually she'll accept you. Probably. Maybe."
"Very reassuring," Webb muttered, but he was smiling now, and when Aria looked at him again, her expression was less hostile and more curious.
"She's warming up to you," I said, settling into the chair beside Julian. "I can tell."
"How can you tell?" Webb asked. "She just spit formula in my face."
"She didn't throw anything this time," I pointed out. "And she's not crying. Trust me, that's progress."