Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 281 - 276: The Heat Between Us

The first thing Gabriel registered was warmth.

A steady, all-encompassing heat pressed against his skin—not stifling, not fevered like it had been hours ago. Just...warm. Heavy. Familiar. There was a faint ache in his lower back, a dull soreness radiating from every muscle in his legs, and a pleasant sting that reminded him he’d been thoroughly ruined.

Twice. No—more. He didn’t remember.

He shifted, groaning softly, the sound raw from a throat that had screamed too many times. His cheek dragged against linen sheets—luxury cotton, freshly changed, faintly scented with whatever ether-neutral detergent Edward insisted on. That meant someone had come in.

God help them.

Gabriel blinked slowly, lashes fluttering against his skin. He didn’t know where he was for a second—bed, yes. But when? Morning? Evening? Gods, what day was it?

"Damian?" he croaked, throat dry.

There was no answer.

But there was a weight behind him—an arm slung across his waist, heavy and slack. Breath, soft and slow, brushed the nape of his neck in a steady rhythm. Gabriel tilted his head slightly and caught a glimpse of black hair, disheveled and damp, sticking to a forehead pressed loosely to his shoulder.

Damian. Fast asleep. Finally.

Gabriel smiled—slow, incredulous.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. Or being carried to bed. Or the last time he had been the one awake first. His body was still humming from the bond, but the fever had eased. His heat was settling now into that after-state of quiet sensitivity and soul-deep fatigue.

He turned slightly, careful not to wake Damian, and blinked at the sight in front of him.

The great, terrifying Emperor was utterly wrecked.

His chest rose in slow, even breaths. His mouth was slightly parted, his lashes casting long shadows over sharp cheekbones. One arm was tangled around Gabriel like he thought someone might try to steal him in his sleep. His fingers twitched faintly at Gabriel’s hip.

Gabriel lifted one hand and brushed a knuckle along Damian’s jaw.

"Serves you right," he whispered, lips twitching. "I told you two days were a myth."

Damian didn’t stir.

And thank the stars for that—because Gabriel wasn’t ready to move yet. Not with how tender he felt. Not with how content he was for once. His body ached in ways that would absolutely scandalize the court physician. His thighs burned. His hips protested.

But for the first time in a long, long time—his chest didn’t.

He reached for the corner of the blanket, tugged it higher over both of them, then let himself exhale fully, like sleep wasn’t something to be guarded anymore.

And just before his eyes drifted shut again, he murmured—almost smug:

"You’re mine too, Damian Lyon. Wrecked and exhausted and fucking spent. All mine."

The only answer was a low, sleep-rough groan, followed by a lazy pull that dragged Gabriel tighter into his mate’s chest.

And for once? Gabriel let himself be held.

—

Gabriel woke to the sound of soft fabric rustling. The kind that came from someone pulling on clothes too precisely, too quietly—someone trying not to wake him.

Which was already suspicious.

He blinked slowly, lashes sticking, his body protesting even the idea of movement. His thighs ached. His back ached. His neck felt like he’d slept in three different contorted positions across two continents. But worse than all of that...

His heat was gone.

The bond was quiet now. Present. Deep. But not burning. Not crackling like it had before.

Gabriel squinted toward the edge of the bed.

Damian stood at the hearth, already half-dressed—shirt open, black slacks perfectly creased, hair still damp but neatly combed. Regal. Serene.

Suspiciously alive for a man who almost died of sex.

Gabriel made a sound. Somewhere between a groan and a threat.

Damian looked over, gaze instantly softening. "Morning."

Gabriel squinted. "Is it?"

"Technically?"

There was a knock.

And then Edward entered.

Carrying a folder. A glass of juice. And the aura of a man who deserved hazard pay.

Gabriel’s voice cracked. "How long?"

Edward didn’t even look fazed. "Three and a half days."

Gabriel blinked. "Three and a—"

"You were in heat for three," Edward said flatly, placing the glass on the bedside table. "You’ve only been asleep for half." fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

Gabriel opened his mouth.

"I told you. At least two," Damian cut in, voice far too smug for someone who had physically broken a mattress and was as sore as Gabriel. "We still have a day and a half free. I cleared our schedule along with the heat days. Consider it post-bond leave."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes, but the math was still mathing.

"So..." he said slowly, his voice hoarse. "Everyone knows what we did?"

Damian didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just calmly buttoned his shirt like he hadn’t spent the better part of three days absolutely ruining his mate with the kind of stamina that could only be described as imperial tyranny.

Edward, however, had the decency to pause. To sigh. The sigh of a man who had endured exactly 84 discreet staff messages, three intercepted gift baskets, and one assassination attempt on the fruit bowl—all because nobody knew if the Emperor and his mate were alive or just too busy.

He didn’t look up from the folder as he answered, voice blessedly dry. "The palace was informed of your indisposition. In carefully vague terms."

Gabriel frowned. "So... that’s a yes."

"It’s a diplomatic yes," Edward replied.

"Which is still a yes."

Damian approached the bed, the smirk forming slowly. "Let them guess. The rumors are always worse than the truth."

Gabriel arched a brow. "Brave for a man as wrecked as I am but with better acting skills."

Damian didn’t even pretend to be offended. He slid one hand under the blanket, curling it possessively around Gabriel’s ankle like he had every right to touch. Like he owned the soreness in his joints.

"That’s not acting," he said mildly. "That’s recovery. Which, by the way, I earned."

Gabriel gave him a flat look. "You earned a one-way trip to the floor if you so much as look smug again."

Edward, who had clearly perfected the art of tuning them out until necessary, scrolled on his tablet. "Dr. Marin wants to see you after your heat is over," he said crisply. "He wants to check the damage."

Gabriel froze. "What damage?"

Edward didn’t even blink. "Pelvic strain. Mild inflammation. Elevated ether residue in your bloodstream. He also said—and I quote—’if the pregnancy is affected, I will sedate him myself and feed him through a drip.’"

Gabriel’s mouth opened.

Closed.