Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 253 - 247: Rumor Wears Silk

Rafael didn’t flinch. "I’m not part of her game. She didn’t ask."

That was true.

Gabriel could see that; he could see through him—a twenty-year-old omega attempting to seize the opportunity Gabriel had forced upon him. His coat still sat awkwardly on his shoulders, and the pin Irina attempted to stab him with was slightly crooked.

He looked like a well-groomed lie. One that hadn’t figured out its punchline yet.

Rafael sat perfectly still, trying to appear composed, but the effort only made it worse. His hands were folded too neatly. His posture too stiff, like someone bracing for a blow that hadn’t yet landed.

Gabriel tilted his head, contemplating what to say next, while Damian listened and rubbed his mate’s back as if he had all the time in the world.

Gabriel finally broke the pause. "And you?"

Rafael placed his glass down carefully. "I don’t know her games," he said. "She doesn’t share them."

His tone was steady now, but quiet. Thoughtful, not submissive. The sound of someone used to watching court life from a distance and finally choosing to lean in.

"But I can find out," he added. "If that’s what you want."

Gabriel tilted his head. "You’re not here to spy on your mother. You’re here to be useful. Don’t mix the two."

Rafael nodded once. "Understood."

"Good," Gabriel said. Then, with the same offhanded elegance as if assigning someone to fetch wine:

"You’ll keep assisting with the civil exam."

Rafael gave a dry half-smile. "Should I be concerned by the way you said that?"

"You should always be concerned," Alexandra muttered, sipping lazily. "That’s the secret to surviving him."

Gabriel ignored her. "I need daily reports on ether-processing discrepancies across the grading terminals. Pull scoring data from at least three different examiner stations and compare them against their calibration tags. Each station is marked, so if someone’s adjusting their ether thresholds to favor certain scripts—"

"I’ll catch it," Rafael finished, sharper now.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, faintly amused. "Will you?"

Rafael nodded. "If they’re using a manual override on the auto-sorting enchantments, it leaves a pulse trail—small, but traceable. Most clerks don’t even bother to cover it."

Gabriel’s smile was slow and satisfied. "That’s why you’re here."

Damian said nothing, but his hand pressed lightly at Gabriel’s hip. The quiet signal of approval was enough.

Rafael didn’t shift again.

The conversation turned—names and implications drifting back to Alexandra, to Delphina, to who had seeded what rumor and for what purpose. But Rafael didn’t retreat.

He sat there, the son of a count who had spent most of his life keeping his head down—and now found himself invited to lift it.

Gabriel gave him one last look, almost careless. "Make yourself useful, Rafael. Or someone else will."

Rafael met his eyes. "I intend to."

And for the first time, Gabriel believed him.

—

Lady Delphina Roseroth had never lost control of a room.

Not when her husband died, not when her eldest was forced to accept a title he wasn’t ready for, and certainly not when whispers tried to paint her as outmatched by younger, hungrier women with ambitions that outpaced their finesse.

She had built her throne not with blood or coin—but with presence.

So when the first threads of rumor reached her, carried in the sharp edge of a compliment by a fellow duchess, she didn’t react.

She sat perfectly still in her marble-tiled parlor, tea cooling in its cup, eyes fixed on the gilded windowpane. A single phrase echoed in her head:

’They’re saying Rafael is with them now. If he plays his cards correctly, he may become the second consort.’

It wasn’t the words themselves that made her still. It was how easily they had been spoken to. How casually the idea had been floated over crystal flutes and sweet wine, like it was some amusing aside in a conversation about ballroom renovations.

Gossip that could get her son killed.

Delphina didn’t blink. She reached for her tea, now gone cold, and set it aside untouched.

Rafael.

Her son. Her sweet second son.

The one she’d protected by omission, by distance, by gently—carefully—allowing the court to forget he existed until he was of age. She had kept him out of inheritance disputes, shielded him from his brother’s burdens, and the only reason she really brought him to Gabriel’s tea party was... Rosaline.

Because Rosaline had insisted. Sweetly. Persistently.

"It would be good for him to get out," she’d said.

"Gabriel likes fresh minds. He won’t even notice him," she’d said.

And Delphina—busy, calculating, half-distracted—had let herself believe it.

She had thought, just for a moment, that a quiet afternoon in the garden wouldn’t hurt. That Rafael could sit in the shade, drink polite tea, and remain invisible like he always had.

But now the court was whispering about second consorts.

Now Rafael was being seen.

And Rosaline? Rosaline had vanished into the social circuit, throwing glances and silk veils like she hadn’t been the one to light the match.

Delphina returned to the ballroom with the same elegance she always carried—unhurried, composed, a glass of something pale and expensive balanced delicately between two fingers. She drifted near the mirrored columns, watching the crowd with a faint smile, as if she, too, was thinking about gossip and lace and which duchess had worn that necklace first.

But her eyes didn’t follow the dancers. Not really.

They moved like nothing had changed. Like the floor hadn’t turned colder in the last two hours.

Like Hemsworth hadn’t stepped out onto the balcony for a private word with the Emperor and never returned.

Delphina had known Hemsworth for thirty years. He had the political grace of a stone but the lineage of a founding house. And now?

Gone. No announcement. No explanation. No return.

The nobles were pretending nothing had happened—because that was the only thing left to do when terror came wearing formal shoes and didn’t raise its voice.

The Emperor hadn’t needed to make a scene.

He had watched. Just once. And Hemsworth had vanished.

Everyone knew.

They simply chose to keep dancing, like fear wasn’t curling around their ankles.

Delphina sipped her wine with a hand that didn’t tremble.

But her mind was moving too quickly now to pretend otherwise.

She should have known better.

She did know better.

Damian Lyon wasn’t the sort of man to leave threats unanswered. He had let Gabriel walk freely in the palace—and now? Now he watched him like a beast chained only by promise. There was no mistaking it anymore. The throne bent to Damian, but Damian bent only to one person.

And that person was the one Rosaline had targeted.