Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 322 - 317: By my side

Gabriel sighed, the sound quieter than the firelight and just as tired, then set his cutlery down with the deliberate precision of someone who had made peace with his own poor judgment in advance. "We’ll do it," he said, tone dry but not reluctant. "I’ll regret my decision, possibly during the vows and definitely during the lace fittings, but there are things that have to be done."

Damian didn’t argue.

He didn’t gloat.

He just nodded once, slow and satisfied, then reached for the serving dish without ceremony.

"Good," he said, spooning another helping onto Gabriel’s plate with the kind of finality usually reserved for royal decrees. "Now eat a little more."

Gabriel stared at the plate. Then at Damian. Then back at the plate—as if it might somehow offer a diplomatic exit from the disaster they had collectively crafted—but after a beat, he picked up his fork and ate.

The rest of the night passed in silence. They stayed close without needing to touch. Damian read. Gabriel half-slept. The ring stayed on.

And soon, it was morning.

Unfortunately, so was Edward.

He did not knock. He did not wait.

He entered like a man who had already planned three funerals before breakfast and decided a fourth might actually help his circulation. The curtains were flung open with mechanical efficiency, the scent of peppermint oil and despair trailing in behind him.

"Your Graces," Edward announced, voice sharp enough to slice through silk. "The court is waiting for you."

Gabriel stayed in bed for a long moment after Edward’s dramatic exit, shoulders slumped, one arm thrown over his eyes like a noble in mourning. "I hate mornings."

Damian, who was already halfway through buttoning his shirt with the serene efficiency of a man who had scheduled at least two political takedowns before sunrise, didn’t bother to glance back. "You hate paperwork, confrontation, and accountability. Mornings are just an innocent bystander."

Gabriel groaned louder, dragging the pillow over his head like it could shield him from reality. "You sound like Edward."

"That’s because he’s right."

"You’re both traitors," came the muffled reply.

Damian didn’t rise to the bait. He reached for Li the watch Edward had left on the dresser with military precision, slid it on, and crossed to the window with the kind of calm that only came from decades of knowing how to weaponize punctuality. "You have ten minutes before your absence causes diplomatic concern."

Gabriel let out a sound that could only be described as noble suffering, the kind of theatrical exhale that implied the collapse of dynasties and not, in fact, the mild inconvenience of state hearings. Still, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the floor with the reluctant resolve of a man who had once survived war and betrayal, but still found mornings personally offensive.

He dressed quietly, the silence in the chamber broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as he slipped the robe over his shoulders. Today’s hearings carried more weight than usual—political and personal. It was the day the council would vote to officially transfer the Claymore title from George to Max, and the court would be thick with vultures, circling, waiting for blood or hesitation.

Gabriel chose his attire with care: a robe cut in the court’s formal style, its lines clean and elegant, tailored to emphasize the right details without a whisper of ostentation. The fabric swept down his form in rich folds, cinching subtly at the waist, then falling to frame the length of his legs. His tall, slender frame—long lines, sharp shoulders, a posture honed by both breeding and defiance—wore it like armor.

The door opened with the quiet efficiency only Edward’s staff ever managed, soundless hinges, a shift in air, the barest echo of footsteps on polished floors. Damian entered without announcement, and stopped mid-stride.

Gabriel didn’t turn. He was adjusting the silver cuffs at his wrists, elegant and deliberate, the soft fabric of his robe falling just so against his frame. The robe was deep gray, almost charcoal, with faint embroidery at the collar, imperial threads. It clung to him like it had been designed by someone who knew exactly how he moved. Because it had been.

Gabriel glanced up at the mirror, meeting Damian’s gaze in the reflection with a faint, knowing smile. "Something wrong?"

amian analyzed his mate’s attire with the hunger of a wolf, every inch of his gaze deliberate. His golden eyes traced the line of Gabriel’s neck down to the subtle dip of his collarbone, lingering where the fabric clung to his waist, flat, defined, unforgiving in its elegance. His jaw tightened slightly, the silence stretching just long enough to make Gabriel’s brow lift.

Damian said nothing at first. Just stepped forward, slowly, until there was barely a breath between them, the heat of his body wrapping around Gabriel like a second layer. His gaze dipped again, this time stopping at the waist with quiet intensity, as if he expected it to swell, shift, reveal something it had no right to yet.

"You should be resting," he said at last, voice low and rough at the edges.

Gabriel turned, not stepping back. "You should be in the throne room."

"I will be." Damian’s hand ghosted just above the embroidered seam at Gabriel’s side, close enough to feel the heat of him through the fabric. "After I convince myself no one will look at you and forget I’m the one who gets to take this off."

Gabriel arched a brow. "You are unbelievable."

Damian’s grin was shameless. "So I’ve been told."

"By who? The council? Edward? The gods you keep testing?"

"All of the above," Damian said smoothly, stepping closer again, as if proximity was a weapon he intended to use liberally. "But you’re the only one I let say it to my face without consequence."

Gabriel let out a breath, half a laugh, half exasperation, and turned back toward the mirror. "If you ruin this robe before the hearing, Edward will find a way to have you excommunicated."

"I’d like to see him try," Damian murmured, reaching out and fixing a fold at Gabriel’s shoulder that didn’t need fixing, his fingers brushing skin, deliberate. "Besides... it would be worth it."

Gabriel met his gaze again in the mirror, expression unreadable at first. Then, softly, "It’s not just about Max today."

"No," Damian agreed. "It’s about loyalty. Titles. Blood."

He watched Gabriel’s reflection like he was etching it into memory. "This is the second time you’ll be at a hearing with me. And from now on—" his voice dropped, steady and final, "—you’ll be at every single one."

Gabriel’s fingers stilled over the silver clasp at his throat. The robe was almost finished, but something about that sentence made his hand hover.

He met Damian’s eyes again in the mirror. "Every one?"

"You’re not a guest anymore," Damian said. "You’re mine. My consort. My future empress. And anyone who wants to speak to the crown will have to speak to you too."

Gabriel tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "Even if it’s something you don’t want me to hear?"

"Especially then." Damian’s gaze didn’t waver. "I don’t need protection from the truth. But I trust you to be the one who hears it with me."

A beat passed between them, sharp and loaded.

Then Gabriel—voice cool, arch—asked, "What if I disagree with you in the middle of it?"

Damian smirked, stepping closer again, his hand lifting to adjust the clasp Gabriel hadn’t finished. "Then we’ll fight in private. But we’ll stand united in public."

Gabriel’s lips twitched into something that could have been affection, or warning. "You really are planning to make this permanent."

Damian met his gaze head-on. "It already is."

And for once, Gabriel didn’t argue.