Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 244 - 239: The Spite Department

The next morning arrived with too much light and not enough mercy.

Gabriel sat at the small round table in their private sitting room, draped in one of Damian’s robes—deep navy, edged in Lyon gold, still warm from the dryer. His hair was slightly damp, combed back with minimal effort. A fine sheen of morning reluctance clung to him like a second skin.

In front of him sat a bowl of pale, innocently steaming porridge.

It glistened with what might have been oats. Or punishment. Gabriel couldn’t decide which.

Across the table, Damian looked devastatingly alert in a crisp shirt, already halfway through his second cup of black coffee. No cream. No sugar. Just bitter darkness—appropriate, really.

Gabriel stared at the bowl as if it had insulted his lineage.

"Is this supposed to be edible?" he muttered, picking up the spoon like a weapon and giving the contents a slow stir. "Or am I meant to reflect on my sins while it cools?"

"It’s doctor-approved," Damian replied mildly, not looking up from the tablet in his hand.

"And I’ve personally checked it hasn’t been tampered with," Edward added, seated nearby like a doom god of nutrition. "Your Spite Department is already in the Empress’s office waiting for you. I recommend you eat before Marchioness Alexandra sets something on fire."

Gabriel’s brows drew together. "The what department?"

Edward didn’t blink. "Your secretary board. Irina really liked the name. It stuck."

Gabriel blinked, the faint afterglow of the vow still clinging to him like static. "...That was a joke."

"It was documented," Edward said. "And laminated. There’s a crest. It involves a quill skewering a rose."

Damian’s mouth twitched, eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "I approve of this development."

"You would," Gabriel muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "How long has this been going on?"

"Since you insulted half the Ministry’s clerks and forced the others to reorganize the examination process without bribery or nepotism," Edward replied. "They started wearing black pins yesterday. So, yesterday. It’s become a movement."

Gabriel groaned. "And I thought the assassination attempt was the worst part of my week."

"That was last Tuesday," Edward said flatly.

Gabriel stared at him.

Damian, looking far too pleased, added, "And now you’re officially the leader of a bureaucratic revolt."

Gabriel exhaled sharply, gesturing vaguely toward the door. "Fine. I’ll deal with the revolutionaries. Give me fifteen minutes and a shirt that doesn’t smell like Damian."

"Ten," Edward said, already rising. "The nobles are arriving, and Lady Serathine has sent word that her hair is a political message and must not go unnoticed."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "I hate everything about that sentence."

"Yes," Edward said, pausing at the door to glance at the low glow of wardlight etched into the floor. "And yet, you’re still expected to dance." freewebnσvel.cøm

The door closed with the soft finality of someone who’d long accepted that logic had no place in an empire.

Left alone, Gabriel looked down at the bowl in front of him—lukewarm now, faintly steaming, holy in its blandness.

He considered it.

Then muttered, "If I faint here, do you think the physician would hide me in his office until I give birth?"

Damian didn’t look up. "No. He’d call Edward."

Gabriel sighed again, with the full weight of someone deeply wronged by breakfast.

Then, dryly, choosing not to unravel:

"...So," he muttered, "do you mind being in the same group with Rafael?"

Damian set the tablet aside. "The second son with a face too pretty to be trusted and a folder that reads like a war strategist’s dream?"

"That’s the one."

"I don’t mind," Damian said slowly. "But I reserve the right to make his life difficult if he flirts with either of us."

Gabriel gave him a side glance. "He’s not interested in me."

"That’s not reassuring," Damian said, entirely serious.

Gabriel made for the wardrobe with the energy of a man heading into battle armed only with a spoon and half-digested porridge.

"He was cornered by Delphine at the tea party," he said over his shoulder. "I think he’s more afraid of noble mothers than imperial alphas."

Damian made a thoughtful noise. "Still not a disqualification."

Gabriel pulled out a crisp white shirt, eyed it, and decided it was far too optimistic for the day ahead.

"Do you want me to remove him from the board?"

"I want you to make him sweat," Damian replied. "But no—keep him. If he’s really that clever, he’ll know better than to fall for someone who looks like they’d drag him into war just to test a new strategy."

Gabriel paused. "Are you describing me or yourself?"

"Exactly," Damian said, sipping his coffee.

Gabriel snorted, shrugging into the shirt and buttoning it with practiced ease. "If he survives Alexandra, Irina, and Julian, he deserves to stay."

"I’m more concerned about him surviving all three in the same room," Damian muttered, setting down his cup at last. "That’s not a board. That’s a weaponized mood."

Gabriel tugged on his coat, adjusting the collar. "That’s why I built it. I don’t need courtiers—I need people who understand the assignment and don’t cry when I correct them with red ink."

Damian crossed the room, fingers brushing Gabriel’s lapel in a grounding gesture. "You’re going to be brilliant."

"I already was," Gabriel said. "Now I’m just properly dressed."

Damian leaned in, brushing a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "Come back to me after you’re done terrifying half the Empire."

Gabriel gave him a crooked smile. "Only if you have coffee waiting."

"I’ll make it myself."

Gabriel arched a brow. "You never make it yourself."

"Exactly. Incentive."

—

Gabriel pushed open the door to the Empress’s Office, still adjusting his cuffs—

And stopped.

Dead center on the door was a freshly printed poster—bordered in black, laminated with alarming confidence.

THE SPITE DEPARTMENT

Civil Examination Reform Task Force. Est. Recently. United in Judgment.

A quill skewered a rose in the crest’s center.

And beneath it, in smaller cursive print:

We do not forget. We do not forgive. We DEfile.