Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 265 - 259: Enjoy the Dividends

Edward turned—slowly, sharply. "The... heat?"

Gabriel didn’t flinch.

He set his teacup down with deliberate grace and adjusted the cuff of Damian’s shirt, still too large on his wrists. "Yes. It’s expected to begin in a few days. I assumed the medical reports had reached you."

"They had not," Edward said flatly.

Damian didn’t speak, though his hand on Gabriel’s knee tensed beneath the table.

Edward continued, his voice tight with professional offense. "And when, exactly, was the palace planning to inform me that you’ll be entering a full heat cycle while twelve weeks pregnant and bonded to the most unstable alpha on record?"

"I’m right here," Damian said mildly.

"You’re always right there," Edward snapped, never looking away from Gabriel.

Gabriel sighed. "It’s being handled. A wing will be prepared, I’ll be sealed, and no one will know except the three of us and a physician who is being paid enough to keep quiet."

Edward’s hand twitched near his tablet. "Sealed. In a wing. With him."

Gabriel raised a brow. "I’m sorry, would you prefer I spend it with someone else?"

"Don’t tempt me," Edward muttered, flicking his wrist to open the holographic interface with a swipe so sharp it could’ve cut marble. "You should have been moved already. There should be scent-dampeners in place. Bond stabilizers on standby. A rota of vetted Shadows. Someone should have briefed the diplomatic wing in case an ambassador walks into a hallway and spontaneously develops a secondary gender—again."

"I’m not contagious—well, not the kind that changes genders," Gabriel said dryly, tilting his head. "I’m marked, did you forget? If they aren’t called Damian Orion Lyon, they won’t feel anything."

Edward didn’t look up. "The foreign minister’s son passed out during your last committee hearing."

"That was about economic reform," Gabriel replied coolly. "He passed out because he’s weak."

Edward paused mid-gesture.

Gabriel pointed a slow, elegant finger in Damian’s direction. "He’s the one that can do that. Not me. Manage him. I don’t know why I am the victim here."

"I’m perfectly capable of controlling my pheromones," Damian said calmly, catching Gabriel’s hand mid-air and pressing it gently down onto his own cutlery, as if placing a stray instrument back in its case.

The touch was light and deliberate.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes but didn’t pull away.

Edward, however, looked moments away from flipping the entire tray.

"You may be able to control your pheromones," he said tightly, "but others can’t control what their secondary systems do when you’re both in the same room and the Consort is practically glowing like a blessed statue."

"I glow because I’m superior," Gabriel muttered.

"You glow because you’re marked," Edward snapped, "pregnant, hormonal, and apparently entering heat soon enough to disrupt the diplomatic calendar."

Gabriel sighed. "Would you prefer I delay it? Should I reschedule my biological cycle around the trade agreements?"

"Don’t tempt me," Edward deadpanned.

Damian sipped his tea, unbothered. "You could always put it in a memo."

"I’ll put it in your grave marker," Gabriel muttered, rising from the table.

Edward didn’t flinch. "I’ll draft a second version. For state use."

Damian chuckled low in his throat, setting his cup down with precise elegance. "You’re both exhausting."

Gabriel, halfway to the door, didn’t even turn around.

"You marked me, got me pregnant, and want to marry me," he said. "Enjoy the dividends."

—

Gabriel dressed more casually today, as there were no hearings on his schedule: dark trousers, a collared navy shirt beneath a coat stitched with faint ether-thread detailing, polished cuffs, and no jewelry. His hair was still slightly damp, swept back neatly from his face. The mark on his neck had stopped aching, but it still shimmered faintly under the collar.

And then he stepped into the hallway—and saw Damian.

Damian was already dressed in his field inspection uniform: deep black with silver accents, the Lyon seal pressed clean into the shoulder pauldron, his hair swept back, and his gloves half-pulled as if he’d just paused between finishing a war plan and lifting someone by the throat.

The fit was tighter than his usual imperial attire—functional, tailored to movement, but cut in a way that left almost nothing to the imagination. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, every line of him purposeful and sharp.

Gabriel stopped.

And blinked once, slowly.

It wasn’t fair.

He took a breath, then another, and cataloged it like any other crisis: field uniform. Double-buckled. Fitted. Dangerous. The kind of outfit that made dignitaries flinch and subordinates walk straighter. The kind of outfit that would’ve been illegal in three court cultures for inducing diplomatic unrest.

He hated how well it worked.

"I assume this is your version of subtlety," he said, his voice too even.

Damian looked up. "It’s protocol."

"It’s pornographic."

Damian gave him a slow, assessing glance—just once, top to bottom. "You’re wearing my shirt."

"I was wearing it to be comfortable," Gabriel snapped. "Now I look like I’m matching a man who could end a coup in five minutes with his shoulders."

Damian smiled faintly. "You don’t look like you’re matching me."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Oh? Should I wear the uniform too?"

Damian didn’t miss a beat. "You’d terrify the entire general council."

Then he paused.

Just for a breath.

Because, unfortunately, his mind had already gone there—Gabriel in a black field uniform, sleek lines molded to that infuriatingly regal frame, the Lyon insignia stitched above his heart, boots laced, eyes sharp enough to command without speaking.

And just like that, Damian’s smile faltered. Disappeared.

Gabriel noticed immediately.

"Oh no," he said flatly. "You pictured it."

"That wasn’t a suggestion," Gabriel added. "That was sarcasm." frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

Still nothing.

Gabriel let out a slow, pained sigh. "You’re impossible. I’ve worn uniforms before. I worked on sites. I supervised military ether towers in thirty-five-degree heat while people with less clearance told me how to hold a wrench."

Damian’s gaze didn’t waver. "And?"

Gabriel scowled. "And none of those engineers looked at me like you are right now."

"That’s because none of them were in love with you," Damian said, voice steady.

Gabriel blinked.

Damian didn’t look away. "Or half-feral from watching you wear my shirt like it was made for command."

Gabriel took a breath, sharp and quiet, then started walking toward the hallway. "You want me to enter heat early? Keep talking."

Damian didn’t move. Just watched.

"I’ll let the Spite Department know I’m entering heat," he called over his shoulder. "Try not to start another war while I’m gone. Or deliver me like a package. You still have to clear that."

And then he was gone.

Damian watched him go, smiling like a man who very much intended to start something. War or otherwise.