Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 275 - 270: Swear it.

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

Edward didn’t deny it.

Instead, he set his teacup down with the kind of deliberate care that preceded a verbal ambush.

"So you know," he said flatly. "Then why do you keep ignoring your health?"

Gabriel blinked, caught mid-thought.

Edward didn’t wait. "Do you want to see bloodshed while you’re mid-faint, slumped on a throne you refused to rest in?"

Gabriel’s mouth opened—probably to deflect with something witty, sharp, or criminally sarcastic—but Edward raised a finger.

"Because if you collapse in front of him again," Edward continued, voice still maddeningly calm, "I will personally take out a royal petition to sedate you for the remainder of your pregnancy, and no one will stop me."

"I’m fine," Gabriel muttered, eyes still on the sheets. "Everyone keeps treating me like I’m made of glass."

Edward exhaled with the exhausted grace of a man who had seen empires rise and fall but was now losing to one twenty-something omega with too much power and exactly zero self-preservation instincts.

"Gabriel," he said, tone clipped, "for the love of my sanity—and this palace—stop pretending you can carry everything alone."

Gabriel opened his mouth, probably to argue, to offer some glib remark about competence or strategic workload distribution or how he’d survived worse without a nap schedule.

Edward raised his hand.

A single, imperial, don’t-even-breathe gesture.

"Fine," Edward said before Gabriel could speak. "Yes. You can carry it alone. You’re brilliant. You’re capable. You’re Dominie. Congratulations. But you shouldn’t."

He stood, slow and deliberate, setting the teacup down with enough finality to make porcelain tremble.

"We are here to support you," he said, quieter now but no less firm. "Not to hover. Not to interfere. To support—so you don’t burn out like Alexander, disappear like Callahan, or drop dead like half the noble houses want you to."

Gabriel’s breath caught, just slightly.

Edward stepped closer, gentler now.

"We are not your father. Or George. We don’t want to use you. We want you to live."

Gabriel looked up, lips pressed tight, and for a moment—just a second—his expression cracked. Not into weakness, but into acceptance.

Then he sighed, slower this time.

"You, Damian, and the rest keep saying these things," Gabriel murmured, his voice no longer sharp but tired. "But you still do the opposite. You make decisions for me. You wrap them in care and protection and call it support, but it’s the same thing. You expect me to comply and pretend like my entire world isn’t upside down."

Edward stilled, the silence between them suddenly sharper.

Gabriel didn’t stop.

"Did you ever think that the old me—the one before all this—wanted a mate? A child?" He looked up, and there was no venom in his eyes, only the ache of too many truths crammed into too little time. "Do you even understand how terrified I was when Damian approached me?"

Edward said nothing, but the weight of his presence didn’t recede.

Gabriel let out a quiet, bitter laugh, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

"We’re talking about a man who claimed me in less than a week," he said, voice low but steady. "And me—who, for fuck’s sake, once placed a fake bond mark on my neck just to be left alone."

That landed in the silence like a cracked bone—ugly, honest, real.

Edward didn’t flinch. But something in his gaze sharpened, as if the admission wasn’t new, but hearing it from Gabriel’s own mouth turned theory into weight.

"I wasn’t looking for this," Gabriel went on, each word deliberate. "Not a mate. Not a child. Not this gilded cage disguised as protection. I did everything to stay free, to stay untouched, to survive without belonging to anyone."

Edward sighed, the kind of sigh that belonged in the annals of military campaigns and failed tea infusions. He pinched the bridge of his nose like it personally offended him.

"I swear to every saint in the imperial archives," he muttered, "I am this close to beating some sense into your ass."

Gabriel blinked. "Violence? Really?"

"Not violence," Edward said, his voice calm but deadly. "Correction. You need corrective smacking. Because Damian lets you do anything you want—walk into council meetings half-dressed, insult nobles in two languages, redecorate his office—and if someone so much as breathes in your direction wrong, he’d slit their throat and file it under ’personnel restructuring.’"

Gabriel looked unconvinced.

Edward pointed at him.

"You are not in a cage," he said flatly. "You are nesting in the control room of an empire. You have the leash on Damian Lyon, the Shadows, half the court, and all the public sentiment anyone could ask for. If anyone else had that kind of power, they’d be throwing galas and demanding statues."

"I don’t want a statue."

"You’re getting three," Edward snapped. "Because unlike the rest of us, you’re too stubborn to recognize that being protected and being owned are not the same thing."

Gabriel looked down again, but this time it wasn’t with the same bitter weight. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the sheet, thoughtful.

Edward’s tone softened a fraction. "You’re in the cage because you’re terrified of being vulnerable. Not because anyone put you there. Not because Damian wants you hidden. He wants you safe. You’re the only one who doesn’t want to admit how much that matters to you."

A pause.

Then, dryly: "And stop being a whiny ass. It’s not like you. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted."

Gabriel huffed a laugh, low and begrudging. "You’re supposed to be the calm one."

"I am calm. This is calm. You want panic? Wait until I start monologuing about nutrient charts again."

"God, please don’t."

"Then eat. Rest. Bathe. Let us help you not die from stress before your child develops sarcasm in the womb."

Gabriel leaned back, finally—finally—letting go of the tension in his shoulders. The sharp line of his spine softened against the pillows, and the breath that left him wasn’t a performance or a shield. It was real.

"...Fine," he said, quiet but honest.

Edward didn’t move.

"Swear it," Edward said, his tone as flat as stone.

Gabriel blinked, one brow lifting with theatrical slowness. "Are we making vows now? Because I feel like Damian would not be thrilled if I pledged myself to you before I’ve even done it officially with him."

Edward didn’t miss a beat. "His Majesty would approve. I’m fairly certain I rank higher on the survival checklist right now."

Gabriel snorted. "Romantic."

"No," Edward said, expression dry as winter salt. "Practical. The only thing romantic about this arrangement is that I haven’t sedated you yet."

Gabriel tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. "Is that still on the table?"

Edward stared. "Swear. It."