Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 274 - 268: The bomb

Damian didn’t end the call right away.

The line between them hummed—alive with everything they hadn’t said, with everything they both knew but weren’t ready to confront in full. It wasn’t tension. It was a standoff of love wearing the armor of caution.

"Gabriel," he said finally, quieter now. "I need to go. Wait for me, preferably in the wing Edward prepared for your heat."

A pause.

The kind that lingered just a beat too long—like the silence wasn’t unsure, just reluctant to be filled.

Gabriel didn’t argue. He could’ve. He’d always had the sharp tongue and the sharper instinct, but this time, he let the silence stretch with something softer—trust.

"I’ll go," he said eventually, his voice calm but threaded with meaning. "But only because I’d rather sedate myself than let Marin try."

A faint sound escaped Damian—too soft to be laughter, too pained to be relief. But it was real.

"You’re going to be impossible this week."

"I was impossible the moment you marked me," Gabriel replied dryly. "This week just makes it legal."

That did earn a quiet huff from Damian.

Then—warm again, though still frayed at the edges:

"Thank you."

"Don’t thank me," Gabriel murmured. "Just come back."

"I will."

The bond between them pulsed, low, steady, anchoring.

And then the call ended.

Damian stared at the now-dark screen for a second longer before slipping it back into his coat, the silence around him thick with the kind of tension that didn’t dissipate—it settled, like ash after a fire.

Behind him, Alexander reappeared at the end of the corridor, the heavy echo of his boots the only sound. He held a folder in one hand—so thick it looked like it might contain a trial, an execution, and the appeal all at once.

"The Shadows are ready for the inspection; Paul already departed for Bastion," Alexander said, voice even. "Does Your Majesty want to continue the inspections?"

Damian didn’t answer immediately.

He turned his head slightly, golden eyes catching the dim corridor light as if it burned brighter when reflected through fury barely held in check.

"Yes," he said, voice sharp but even. "Let’s see how good they are."

Damian Lyon never backed down from duty.

Not during the rebellion. Not during the reconstruction. Not when he’d been forced to rebuild an Empire out of blood, ruin, and betrayal so deep it carved names into the walls.

And he wouldn’t start now.

Gabriel was safe. Shielded within the palace, guarded by the only people Damian trusted with his life—and more importantly, with his mate’s. Edward was already coordinating security rotations, and their best Shadows were watching Gabriel’s every move. The kind that didn’t blink, didn’t falter, and didn’t ask for permission to eliminate threats.

Damian exhaled once, the kind of breath that carried more weight than air.

"Call Max and the rest," he said, gaze fixed ahead as he strode down the corridor. "I know they heard everything."

Alexander gave a short nod, already tapping a command into his encrypted comm device.

"They’ve been waiting in the west corridor," he confirmed. "Max didn’t leave after the wall. Halbrecht’s on standby, and Paul left instructions to reroute if you needed the strike teams adjusted."

Damian’s jaw flexed.

"Good," he said. "Then let’s stop pretending this was ever a routine inspection."

Because it wasn’t.

It was never just about checking troop readiness or reviewing formations. Not now.

Not after what Callahan confirmed. Not after the contract. Not after Gabriel’s soul had been hollowed out and rewritten, transformed into a vessel for a man who should have died with his crown and lies.

This was no longer about control. It was about cleansing.

Max, Paul, and Halbrecht—each of them had a role. And Damian had no intention of holding them back anymore. Because this wasn’t just about punishing traitors.

It was about tearing down the framework that allowed it to happen in the first place.

"Put the names in their hands," Damian said as they reached the command chamber doors. "The rest of the list goes dark until I give the signal."

"And the final target?" Alexander asked, eyes steady.

Damian didn’t hesitate. "That one’s mine."

The doors opened.

And the war machine roared back to life.

—

The new chambers were warm. Almost too warm—adjusted precisely to Gabriel’s profile, with a scent-balanced air filtration system, thicker velvet drapes drawn against the noon sun, and enough layered ether in the walls to deaden most surveillance and suppress any lingering traces of stress hormones.

It was, in effect, a nest disguised as imperial luxury. Subtle. Tasteful. Secure.

Gabriel stood in the center of it, arms crossed as he surveyed the room like a man considering whether or not to sue the decorator. Again.

Then he glanced at the far corner—where Edward sat, upright in a wingback chair by the fireplace, teacup in hand and expression so neutral it could have been carved out of duty itself.

"Are you nesting here too," Gabriel asked mildly, "or are you just assuming I’ll spontaneously combust?"

Edward didn’t even blink. "I was informed that Your Grace’s emotional state has a direct correlation with national security. I’m simply making sure the Empire doesn’t fall."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Do you ever take a day off?"

A pause. A very slight lift of Edward’s left brow—an expression that, in Edward terms, was practically a scandal.

"I was granted three days last spring," he said, sipping his tea.

"And?"

"I used them to reorganize His Majesty’s wardrobe by season, destroy a minor espionage ring hiding in the laundry district, and attend a very relaxing opera."

Gabriel stared. "That’s your idea of rest?"

"I enjoyed the opera," Edward said simply.

Gabriel sat down on the edge of the bed, exhaling. "You’re watching me like I’m a bomb."

Edward, never one for dramatics unless sarcasm counted as a language, folded his hands over his lap and replied without inflection, "You are the only one who keeps a man chosen by ether itself under control."

Gabriel arched a brow. "That’s flattering and terrifying in equal measure."

Edward gave him a look over the rim of his teacup. "Did you know that His Majesty hasn’t executed anyone publicly since you stepped into the palace?"

Gabriel blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "What?"

"Not a single blade. Not a single spectacle." Edward sipped. "Just quiet disappearances and policy revisions. The council thinks he’s matured. The generals think he’s planning something apocalyptic."

Gabriel’s lips twitched. "And what do you think?"

"I think," Edward said with the faintest glint of dry humor, "that you terrify him in a way no rebellion ever did."

Gabriel tilted his head. "He’s going to execute Patricia."

"Yes," Edward agreed, setting his cup down. "But not with his own hands."

Gabriel let that settle. "That’s... restraint."

"No," Edward corrected gently. "That’s strategy. And fear. He won’t lay a finger on her, not after the rumors, not with the image of your bond still fresh in the court’s collective memory. If he touches her, they’ll call it personal."

Gabriel frowned. "It is personal."

"Yes," Edward said again, "which is exactly why he won’t let it look that way. She’ll be tried, found guilty, and removed like a corrupt official—quiet, formal, devastating. She’ll have no last words, no legacy. Just a name stricken from record and memory."

Gabriel looked at the floor, fingers curling slightly in the bedsheet. "He wanted to kill her himself."