Damien’s POV
I smelled the smoke before I saw her.
It was faint at first, a thin trail of something burnt floating through the hall, the kind of smell that didn’t belong in this house. The chef was off today. I had told him to leave early, and I hadn’t thought much about it until I heard the soft clang of a pot hitting metal and a muttered curse coming from the kitchen.
When I walked in, she was standing by the stove, hair tied up loosely, one strand falling against her cheek, a wooden spoon in her hand. The sight almost made me stop. Aria barefoot, in my kitchen, with the same defiance she wore like skin stirring a pot that was clearly seconds away from catching fire.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
She jumped slightly, glancing over her shoulder. “Cooking.”
“Cooking,” I re
