Drawing the battleline in the sand

“I didn’t threaten him,” he said blandly, his gaze steady, unreadable. “I reminded you. Asher is in my care. And I expect us to be good parents to him.”

The way he said good had weight. As if good meant obedient. Aria was not an obedient woman.

Her jaw tightened until it ached. “Don’t treat me like a fool. I hate it. We both know what you meant to say.”

His eyes brightened a fraction, and the amusement on his features grew. What was so interesting?

“You can scream at me, you can plot against me,” he finally said softly, tilting his head. “But if you tell Arthur… I’ll know. And then this happy little arrangement we have, it’ll fall apart. Keep your mouth shut, Aria, and you can have whatever you want. Do whatever you want. It’s a free marriage.”

Hatred boiled up in her stomach, but — God help her— so did something else. The sharp pull of awareness that made her spine tingle and her skin heat. She hated that too. She wanted to rip it out of herself, to claw it away until nothing of him could touch her.

Aston leaned back slightly, settling casually on the edge of the desk, giving her space in a way that wasn’t kindness, but control. The predator letting the rabbit breathe before pouncing again.

Her nails dug crescents into her palm, nearly breaking skin. His indifference was worse than his threat, it meant she was nothing more than a piece on his board, to be tolerated so long as she didn’t ruin his game.

But she wasn’t a piece.

The realization roared through her blood like fire. She drew the battleline in her head, every nerve vibrating with it, her hatred and determination sharpening together like twin blades. She would foil him. Whatever he was planning, whoever he thought he was, she would not be the obedient wife he wanted.

Aston’s eyes lingered on her a moment too long, as though he could hear the unspoken vow rattling around in her skull. His smirk flickered wider, cruelly entertained, before his expression smoothed back into that infuriating blank mask. He straightened, brushing an invisible speck of dust from the sleeve of his velvet cardigan with slow, deliberate care.

“I’ll be watching you, darling wife,” he murmured, his tone mild but the weight of it pressing down on her chest. His gaze dipped once, lazily, to the slight gape of her robe, then returned to her eyes without hesitation. It wasn’t a leer, it was worse. It was the casual dismissal of someone who didn’t bother to hide that he’d noticed her body, then filed it away like a small, irrelevant detail.

Her skin prickled. Humiliation warred with rage, and rage warred with that treacherous pull in her stomach she refused to name.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. He turned, long strides carrying him across the study, his shoulders relaxed, as if this entire exchange had been a mild diversion before dinner. At the door, he didn’t look back. He simply left, shutting it behind him with a soft click.

Aria’s knees nearly buckled. Air rushed into her lungs in a shuddering gasp she hadn’t realized she’d been holding back. His scent still clung to the room, sandalwood laced with warm skin and something sharper, something alive. It clung to her hair, her clothes, her mind.

She pressed a hand hard against her ribs, trying to calm the erratic thudding of her heart.

He wanted to betray her grandfather. He had threatened her son. He had dismissed her as unimportant.

So why, why in God’s name, was she… attracted to him?