Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 294 - 289: Brother

The doors of the palace closed behind Max with a soft thud, muffled by the early dusk and the ever-present wards humming in the walls. The warmth of the corridors wrapped around him like a balm, but it did little to ease the electric tension still burning beneath his skin.

He didn’t stop.

Damian was in his study, buried in work he wasn’t supposed to be touching, drowning himself in state reports and strategic forecasts to distract from pain he refused to acknowledge.

He’d been ordered on leave. Gabriel’s order, whispered through a kiss and signed with imperial ink. And yet here he was, undoubtedly with a stack of unfinished papers and a hand that could barely hold a pen.

Max’s jaw tightened as he turned down the eastern corridor. The halls grew quieter with each step. The guards stationed here didn’t salute him anymore. They just stepped aside.

He reached the door and turned the handle and the soft click of a man walking into the eye of the storm was like it was routine.

Inside, the light was low. The desk, cluttered. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting a warm gold glow across the floor. Damian was slumped in the armchair beside it, a pen gripped between his fingers like it had grown there, his other hand cradling his temple.

His sleeve was rolled to the elbow. His shirt was undone at the collar. There were fresh ink smudges on his cuff, and his fingers moved with an eerie stillness—as if they had been writing long after the words ran out. Not with purpose, but with the kind of mechanical persistence born from a man who didn’t know how to stop.

Max stood in the doorway for a breath longer than necessary, taking in the quiet weight of the room. The firelight caught on the edge of the sealed box on the desk. The ring, he realized. Still unopened.

Of course it was. freewebnøvel.com

He crossed the room without ceremony and closed the door behind him.

"You’re bleeding ether into the carpet," Max said casually.

Damian didn’t look up. "Is this how you wind down?"

Max stepped closer, the fire casting a flicker across his face. "I could’ve taken a bath, but I thought emotionally eviscerating our uncle would be more efficient."

Damian let out a faint, humorless sound—something between a breath and a scoff. "You always were a minimalist."

"And you always were a mess," Max shot back, eyeing the ink-smeared desk, the stack of untouched correspondence, and the sealed ring box still unopened. "You’re supposed to be on leave."

"I am on leave."

"Right," Max drawled. "Nothing says recovery like ether poisoning the upholstery."

Damian didn’t reply, but his hand flexed once against the armrest—a faint tremor, quickly stilled.

Max circled the desk, slow and deliberate. "You think Gabriel won’t notice?"

"I told him I’d rest."

"And I told George I wouldn’t kill him. We both lied."

That earned a glance—brief, sharp, tired.

Max dropped into the opposite chair, resting an ankle on his knee. "You planning to give him the ring before or after your channels collapse again?"

Damian’s gaze flicked toward the desk, toward the sealed box sitting like a silent accusation. He didn’t reach for it. He didn’t speak.

"You think he won’t want it if you hand it over like this?" Max asked, quieter now. "You think he won’t know you’re hurting and say no just to stop you from bleeding through the floor?"

Damian leaned back, shutting his eyes for a moment.

"I want him to have it," he murmured. "I just... want to look like I deserve it when I do."

Max’s posture didn’t shift, but something in his expression did. A flicker of something older. Sadder.

"You already do," he said. "But if you don’t stop trying to be a warfront and a wedding at the same time, you’re going to lose both."

Damian’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile.

"So you dealt with George at last?"

"You already do," Max said. "But if you don’t stop trying to be a warfront and a wedding at the same time, you’re going to lose both."

Damian’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile.

"So," he said after a beat, voice rough but steady, "you dealt with George at last?"

Max leaned back in the chair, letting one arm drape over the side with exaggerated nonchalance. "I visited, yes."

"Visited," Damian repeated, voice dry.

"Had a chat. Lit a spell array into his chest. Watched his ether channels scream."

Damian raised an eyebrow. "That’s your idea of a chat?"

"Well, I didn’t kill him," Max said with a shrug. "You should be proud of my restraint."

"Was there screaming?"

"Only on the inside. He couldn’t speak once the array kicked in."

Damian let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair, the motion slower than usual, like everything hurt just a little too much. "Gregoris said you went quiet after Callahan."

Max’s face darkened for just a flicker—then smoothed.

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

"About how many people had to die or break for me to finally admit I’ve been making excuses for him since I was fifteen."

Damian didn’t reply. He just watched his brother for a moment, the fire casting a warm gold hue against the worn edges of both of them.

Max continued, his voice lighter but still laced with steel. "He called me a bastard. Said he made me something. Like I was some pet project built from Claymore scraps."

Damian’s jaw tightened.

Max looked at the fire, then back at him. "I told him I was your brother. That you chose me."

"I did," Damian said quietly, no hesitation.

"I know." Max’s voice lowered. "That’s why I spared him."

Another silence.

Damian finally said, "He’ll never recover, will he?"

"Oh, he’ll live. But every time he tries to use ether, it’ll feel like barbed wire under his skin." Max tilted his head. "I considered letting Gabriel decide his fate, but I figured you wouldn’t want the man who nearly weaponized your mate crawling around long enough to infect another strategy meeting."

Damian’s golden eyes flickered as something colder settled in. "No," he said. "I wouldn’t."

"Well," Max replied, almost lazily, "he won’t be able to do anything aside from breathing for a long time. And if the spell frays the way I designed it to, even that might feel like a punishment soon."

He shifted in his chair, gaze fixed on the fire. "The Council of Claymore’s going to name me heir officially. George’s silence made it easy. They’re already circling, waiting for the blood to dry."

Damian didn’t look surprised. Just tired.

"You think Hadeon will come?" Max asked, quieter now.