Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 320 - 315: Over my dead body

Gabriel raised a brow, lips twitching in a gesture that sat somewhere between exhaustion and reluctant amusement. "You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue. And too hungry to refuse a bribe under the disguise of food."

Damian’s eyes gleamed, golden and sharp and utterly pleased with himself. "Then I’ll start with dinner and end with you."

"No." The answer came with the flat certainty of a man who’d had enough. Gabriel lifted one hand and pressed it directly over Damian’s face, palm firm and unbothered, as if shutting down the conversation with the same energy one might use to swat at a persistent cat.

But unfortunately for him, Damian was regaining his smugness at an alarming rate—his mouth curved beneath the weight of Gabriel’s hand, slow and unapologetic, the kind of smirk that could be felt more than seen, the kind that meant trouble was coming and already too close.

And then, with the deliberate audacity only someone like Damian Lyon could muster after nearly dying for the same person he was now harassing, he tilted his head just enough to lick a single, slow stripe across Gabriel’s palm.

Gabriel shoved him—pointed, unimpressed, but not even remotely effective.

"Don’t lick me," he snapped, snatching his hand back and wiping it on Damian’s collar like petty revenge was a viable form of affection.

"You put it there," Damian said simply, the picture of innocence as he blinked once, slowly, like the very concept of boundaries was new and deeply optional. "Your hand. On my face. I was engaging with my environment."

"I was silencing your stupidity," Gabriel retorted, hand now held aloft like it needed to be cleansed with holy ether and an oath of silence.

Damian’s brows lifted. "You expected restraint from me?"

Gabriel let out a slow, dragging sigh, his head tilting back ever so slightly in that dramatic, drawn-out way that suggested he was reevaluating all his life decisions but was, unfortunately, too far in to turn back now. "Why do I love you."

Damian didn’t even blink. "Because I’m devastatingly charming, dangerously loyal, occasionally tolerable, and capable of bribing you with dumplings."

"You’re lucky I’m hormonal and underfed," Gabriel muttered, rubbing at his temple with the hand that hadn’t just been licked.

"Sounds like the perfect condition for reckless decisions," Damian replied, absolutely delighted with himself, the smugness practically a physical aura at this point—coiling around him like perfume and poor impulse control dressed in silk and gold.

But before Gabriel could deliver the scathing retort forming behind his teeth, a knock echoed once—just once—at the door, a crisp warning more than a request, and then Edward swept in with the quiet force of someone who had absolutely no intention of being surprised by anything anymore, followed dutifully by two palace attendants balancing trays with enough care to suggest the plates cost more than most small noble estates.

They were halfway through arranging the setup near the hearth—a low table already dressed in pressed linen, steam curling from covered silver dishes, soft lighting turned down to cast the room in something warm and private—when Edward looked up.

And froze.

His gaze landed first on Gabriel, who, to his credit, was seated in what could technically be called a dignified position if one ignored the fact that he was still draped over Damian’s lap, legs casually slung over the armrest like some indulgent court painting, one hand gripping Damian’s shirt in what could not reasonably be interpreted as platonic stability. The other had been mid-motion, reaching for the collar again, probably to lecture him.

And then there was Damian himself. Regal. Relaxed. Wearing the kind of slow, smug smile that always meant someone was about to cry in a council meeting, and it wasn’t going to be him.

Edward’s expression flickered—briefly, violently—between fondness and resignation, like a man who had entered the room fully prepared to coordinate a quiet dinner and had instead walked into the opening act of an imperial scandal.

Gabriel, for his part, looked completely and utterly done. His shoulders were already tensing with the exact posture of a man deciding whether to leap out the nearest window or simply dissolve into mist and let the crown sort out the consequences.

"I can explain," Gabriel said, not even convincing himself.

Edward inhaled slowly through his nose, which was always a terrible sign. "Your Grace, you are wearing someone else’s shirt, are barefoot, and currently occupying the Emperor’s lap like a cat in the last stage of bribery. I’m not sure there’s an explanation I’d believe at this hour."

Gabriel made a vague sound that might’ve been protest but came out more like existential regret.

Damian, infuriatingly, didn’t move. He adjusted Gabriel slightly, as if to make him more comfortable, and said with infallible serenity, "We were discussing dumplings."

Edward gave him a look that could have unseated minor nobility.

The attendants, wisely, focused very intently on the soup.

Gabriel sighed through his teeth. "You could’ve at least looked embarrassed."

"I’m not," Damian said calmly. "You’re mine. He knows that."

Edward did not, in fact, deny it. He only turned back to the table and lifted the lid off one of the dishes with the grim composure of a man who had once changed diapers for a prince and had clearly decided that nothing would ever again surprise him.

"If you insist on turning every meal into a performance," Edward said, tone clipped to the edge of a blade, "you’ll forgive me for scheduling your engagement ceremony rehearsals during breakfast. Perhaps the early hour will discourage theatrics."

"Oh, that," Damian said, entirely too serene, swirling his water like it was wine and his declaration wasn’t about to set the room on fire. "We’ve decided to skip the engagement ceremony and marry directly."

"We?" Gabriel said, turning his head so slowly it could’ve been ritualistic. His tone was even, but his eyes carried all the grace of a man watching an avalanche begin. "I had no contribution to that, Rafael barely got the chance to tell me. You made the decision. I was informed—after the execution."

"Over my dead body," Edward said flatly, not missing a beat, not raising his voice, just delivering the sentence with the kind of cold, clipped finality only a man who had raised emperors and buried scandals could manage. It wasn’t anger. It was something worse—command born of exhaustion and affection and the faint knowledge that if he didn’t intervene now, the royal wedding would be conducted in mismatched robes, without witnesses, and possibly in a training ring.