After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 81: The Demon King and His Wife Broke the Bed

The morning sun didn’t wake them up.

A polite, persistent rattling did.

Rattle. Thud. Rattle. Thud.

Aria groaned, burying her face in the pillow. She felt heavy, warm, and delightfully sore. She was tangled in the sheets on the "high ground" of the broken bed, with Damien’s arm draped over her waist like a seatbelt.

"Damien," she mumbled, nudging his ribs. "Make it stop."

"Ignore it," Damien grumbled, tightening his grip.

Rattle. THUD.

"Mr. Sinclair," Alfred’s muffled voice came from the hallway, sounding strained. "I believe the door is... stuck."

Aria’s eyes snapped open. Memory flooded back.

The dresser.

Damien had barricaded the door with a three-hundred-pound antique.

Aria looked at the door. The handle was turning frantically, but the massive oak dresser wasn’t budging an inch.

She started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. She buried her face in the mattress to muffle the sound, her shoulders shaking.

Damien cracked one eye open. He looked at the door, then at the dresser, then at Aria laughing. A slow, lazy smirk spread across his face.

"Effective security system," he noted, his voice raspy with sleep.

"Mr. Sinclair!" Alfred called again, a hint of panic entering his tone. "Is everything alright? Do we need to break the door down?"

"We’re fine, Alfred," Damien shouted back, not moving a muscle. "We just... redecorated. Give us five minutes."

He turned back to Aria, propping himself up on one elbow. He looked devastatingly gorgeous—hair tousled, scratch marks on his shoulders, the sheet pooling at his hips.

"Morning, wife," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her. He tasted like mint and satisfaction.

"Morning, husband," Aria whispered back, wincing slightly as she stretched. "Ouch. My legs."

"Good," Damien said, looking pleased with himself.

They spent ten minutes getting dressed. Aria decided that since she had already ruined the family’s dignity, she might as well lean into it.

She slipped into a Gucci ensemble that barely qualified as clothing. It was a cropped camisole in electric pink silk that ended just below her underwire, paired with high-cut tap shorts that showcased every inch of her long, pale legs. She threw the matching silk robe over it, the fabric opaque but fluid, slipping off her shoulders to reveal the expanse of her skin.

Then came the hard part.

Damien had to shove the dresser back.

He braced his shoulder against the wood, grunting with effort as he pushed the heavy furniture across the floor. The scrape of wood was deafening.

He pulled the armchair away.

He glared at the brass mechanism of the door.

"First Diana, now Alfred," Damien muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Does everyone in this godforsaken house have a key to my bedroom? Is there a sign-up sheet for it in the kitchen?"

He ripped the door open.

Alfred stood there, flanked by two maids holding tea trays. They looked like they were prepared to find a crime scene.

In a way, they did.

The door swung open to reveal the devastation. The floor was covered in neon green feathers. The black lace panties lay shredded on the carpet. And in the center of the room, the massive four-poster bed was listing dangerously to the left, one leg snapped clean in half.

Alfred stared at the broken bed leg. He stared at the feathers. He looked at Damien, who was adjusting his cuffs, looking completely unbothered.

"The bed," Alfred choked out. "It’s... broken."

"Termites," Damien lied smoothly. "Have someone replace it."

One of the maids turned bright red and looked at her shoes.

"And the... feathers?" Alfred asked, picking up a neon plume with two fingers.

"Fashion casualty," Aria announced, stepping out of the bathroom.

Damien turned.

He froze. He started at her bare feet, dragging his gaze up the length of her legs, lingering on the curve of her hips in the tiny shorts, devouring the sight of her breasts spilling over the tight silk camisole, and finally meeting her eyes with a heat that was visceral. It was a look of raw, carnal hunger—as if he wanted to throw her back onto the broken bed and finish destroying it.

He walked over to her, invading her personal space, his presence overwhelming.

"You," he growled, his voice dropping to a low pitch that made her shiver, "are insane."

He reached out, grabbing the lapels of her silk robe. His knuckles grazed the skin of her chest.

"This," he said, pulling the fabric shut with a sharp tug, "stays closed."

He tied the sash around her waist, cinching it tight. His jaw clenched as he hid her body from the view of the butler.

"Why?" Aria teased, though her heart was pounding. "Don’t you like the view?"

"I love the view," Damien murmured, leaning down to kiss her neck gently. "That’s the problem. If you walk downstairs looking like a dessert, I’m going to eat you on the dining table. And I don’t think my grandfather’s heart can take that."

Aria flushed, a thrill shooting through her. "Possessive."

"Always," he confirmed.

"Shall we go to breakfast?" Aria chirped, sliding her arm through his, though her legs felt a little weak from the way he was looking at her. "I’m starving."

They walked past the stunned staff, leaving the wreckage behind them.

The breakfast room was a sun-drenched conservatory overlooking the gardens. Most of the family was already seated—Grandfather at the head, Diana nursing a coffee and a migraine, Catherine picking at a grapefruit, and Lucas looking like he wanted to be sedated.

The conversation died instantly when Aria and Damien walked in.

"You’re late," Grandfather snapped, checking his pocket watch. "Breakfast is served at 8:00 AM sharp. It is 8:45."

"We had a furniture malfunction," Aria said cheerfully. "Good morning, Grandpa! You look vibrant today. Is that a new shade of grey?"

Grandfather glared at her pink outfit. Even with the robe tied, it was clearly sleepwear. "Are you wearing pajamas to my table?"

"It’s Gucci, Grandpa. It’s technically day wear," Aria said, buttering a piece of toast. "Besides, I needed something comfortable. I’m a little sore today. My hips are killing me."

Diana choked on her coffee. She slammed the cup down, coffee sloshing onto the saucer. She refused to look at Damien. The memory of what she had seen in the bedroom was clearly burned into her retinas and refused to leave.

"Sore?" Catherine asked sweetly, sensing an opening. "Did you sleep poorly? I suppose it takes time to adjust to a proper mattress. It must be... different from what you’re used to."

"Oh, the bed was fine," Aria smiled, taking a bite of toast. "Until we broke it."

Lucas dropped his fork. Clatter.

Catherine blinked. "You... broke it?"

"The leg snapped right off," Damien confirmed, pouring himself a black coffee. He looked at Catherine with dead eyes. "It couldn’t handle the... load."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush diamonds.

The maids in the corner were exchanging wide-eyed looks. The gossip would be all over the estate by noon: The Demon King and his wife broke the bed.

"It’s really a safety hazard," Aria added helpfully, popping a strawberry into her mouth. "You should have the rest of the furniture checked, Grandpa. We wouldn’t want anyone else to get hurt during... vigorous activities."

Grandfather Sinclair turned a shade of purple that was becoming his signature color.

"Eat your eggs," he ordered, his voice trembling. "And stop talking about the furniture."

"Yes, Grandpa," Aria chirped.

She looked at Damien. He winked at her over the rim of his cup.

Under the table, his hand found her thigh, slipping under the silk of the robe to rest warm and heavy on her skin.