"You clean all that."
Dean stood at the side of the bed with his arms crossed, staring at the ruined sheets as though Arion had personally flooded the mattress out of spite.
Arion had just returned from the bathroom.
His dark hair was still wet from the shower, pushed carelessly away from his forehead, and he wore nothing except loose black lounge trousers sitting low on his hips. Steam followed him through the open bathroom door, carrying the clean scent of soap beneath the vetiver that had settled back into something considerably less aggressive.
He looked at the bed.
Then at Dean.
"We have staff. A lot of it, I might add."
Dean's face heated immediately.
"That is exactly why you are cleaning it."
Arion's mouth curved.
Dean hated that expression.
