Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 301 - 296: You Chose the Wrong Lyon

Gregoris didn’t bother knocking.

He never did when the air already reeked of arrogance and perfume. The estate stank of it—overdressed guards trying too hard not to meet his eyes, wards straining around corners like they didn’t know whether to flare or collapse. Not imperial, not trained, not even dangerous. Just expensive.

He stepped through the front hall like he owned it, boots echoing sharp against marble, the thud of box wheels behind him like a quiet drumbeat.

Six of them. Each box was lacquered black and sealed with the imperial sigil, hand-forged and still warm.

Rosaline met him in the main reception room, draped in violet silk, her expression smug in a way that only ever belonged to someone who had never seen real blood on polished floors.

"Well," she said, lifting her chin just slightly, gaze like polished glass. "They sent the dog after all."

Gregoris blinked once, slowly. "You flatter me. A dog would bark."

"And yet here you are," she replied, one hand curling around the edge of a crystal glass filled with something sweet and golden. "I assume the Emperor didn’t have the spine to show up himself."

"No," Gregoris said, the corner of his mouth tilting into a wide, wicked grin. "He’s busy spending his rut with his mate."

Rosaline faltered. Just for a breath. Her hand tightened on the glass, perfect nails biting crescents into her palm.

"So he’s still bewitched by that mutt?" she asked, voice thin and sharp. "Does he know his mighty omega was born an alpha? I wonder what the court will say when that little secret comes to light."

Gregoris shrugged like it was nothing—because to him, it was. "That it was a medical mistake. And that you should be more worried about Delphine telling the Emperor about your little tea stunt."

Rosaline froze. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her eyes—wide now—searched his face for a lie and found none.

Gregoris’s grin only deepened, cruel in its calm, carved from the same steel he wore under his coat. "Ah," he said, tone lazy, "so you do know which tea I mean."

Rosaline’s lips parted, then snapped shut.

The silence that followed was thick enough to chew through, and Gregoris took his time unsealing the first box, breaking the wax like it was just another envelope. The sickening thunk of the lid shifting open was deliberate.

He didn’t look down. He didn’t need to.

The blood drained from her face when the edge of Callahan’s jaw came into view—angled wrong, lips parted in a frozen scream, eyes glassy with the kind of fear that lingered even after death. Rosaline didn’t drop the glass, but it tilted just enough to spill syrupy gold onto the embroidered edge of her sleeve.

Her fingers trembled. The room, moments ago scented with sugar and wine, now felt colder than marble. Her silks clung like paper to skin gone bloodless.

Gregoris didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He just stood there as another box was opened, the lid shifting to reveal another head—then another. All six, lined like trophies. Five nobles who had once dared to whisper schemes in drawing rooms, now reduced to silent accusations inside polished wood.

"You think you’re clever," Gregoris said, voice low, almost gentle. "But you still don’t get it, do you?"

Rosaline said nothing. Couldn’t.

"You chose to piss off the wrong Lyon." He leaned just slightly forward, enough for his shadow to stretch toward her feet. "And the Emperor wants to deal with you himself."

Her throat worked, but no sound came out.

Gregoris tilted his head. "Don’t worry. I’m just the message."

He turned without waiting for permission or reply, boots silent as they crossed the floor that now smelled faintly of ether and old blood.

Behind him, the lids began to shut. One by one. With soft, final clicks.

—

The door clicked shut behind Gregoris, but the silence didn’t last.

Rosaline stood frozen for one heartbeat. Then another. The scent of bloodless dread still clung to her lips, souring the wine.

Then she moved.

The glass shattered against the marble floor with a sound that felt too loud, too final—like the snap of a bone you didn’t mean to break. Amber liquid splattered across her shoes, her gown, the hem of the velvet chair where she’d sat too smugly moments before. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

"You bastard!" she hissed—not at Gregoris, not even at Damian. At the air itself, at the echo of her own downfall. At the space where power had once belonged to her. "You arrogant little—"

She choked on the rest.

Gabriel.

Gabriel was the root of it. The seed of every bitter fruit she’d been forced to swallow. That experiment of a man. That walking disgrace of ether and lineage and unearned favor. That omega—no, that thing—that had been born an alpha and still dared to wear softness like it was strength. Who smiled like the world owed him nothing and yet was handed everything she had clawed her way toward.

He had ruined her.

Not just by existing. Not just by thriving. But by becoming needed. By taking her place without ever asking for it.

He hadn’t seduced Damian through a contract.

He hadn’t manipulated his way into the Imperial wing.

He had simply been—and that was enough to reduce her to ashes.

She had crawled—crawled—to Hadeon, to the father of the man she wanted, offering secrets and poisons and schemes. And what had it bought her?

Boxes.

Six of them.

Each one heavier than the last. Each one a funeral knell wrapped in imperial ribbon.

Rosaline trembled, hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles turned white beneath her rings. She could still feel the warmth of the glass on her palm. Still see Callahan’s face—forever frozen in that final, twisted moment of horror.

Gabriel von Jaunez.

She spat the name like it tasted wrong.

She would destroy him.

If not with words, then with history. With legacy. She would rip open the past and pour out every filthy secret she could find. She would make the Empire choke on the truth of what their Empress really was.

Even if it killed her.

Especially if it killed him.