Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 387 - 381: You are a parent now.

When the last tray was positioned and the servers stepped back, Edward moved to the edge of the room and dismissed them with a motion so clean it bordered on imperial decree. The door clicked shut behind the last one.

Then he stayed.

Gabriel didn’t comment right away. He watched Edward with that particular kind of fond suspicion that only he could manage, half insulted, half reassured.

Damian, already cutting into the roasted duck with mechanical grace, didn’t so much as glance up. "Are we to assume you’re joining us, or merely ensuring we chew each bite the proper number of times?"

Edward slid into the nearest chair with a fluidity that betrayed how long he’d intended to stay. "You’ve both ignored protocol and dietary regulations for four days. Forgive my persistence in preserving the line of succession."

"Edward, relax, before I recover enough to use ether." Gabriel said while enjoying his meal.

Edward’s eyes narrowed faintly behind his glasses, not out of offense but calculation.

"I’ll relax when you stop treating postnatal recovery like a tactical inconvenience," he replied, tone dry. "Until then, I’m your designated warden."

Gabriel didn’t even glance up from his plate. "You’re not my warden. You’re Damian’s."

"Correct," Edward said smoothly. "And Damian’s primary weakness is currently stabbing at a fig tart like it personally insulted him."

Damian’s mouth curved slightly, but he made no move to intervene. He had learned, slowly and with great pain, that it was often better to let these exchanges burn themselves out like small fires.

Gabriel reached for the tart in question, flicking Edward a look that danced on the edge of mockery. "Not a weakness. A shared problem."

Damian finally lifted his gaze. "You’re not a problem."

"You’re biased."

"I’m bonded."

"Which is worse."

Edward sighed. "This is why I stayed."

Gabriel bit into the tart, chewed, and hummed in satisfaction. "And this is why I’m still recovering. Stress. Pure, unfiltered stress."

"Try raising a child in the middle of a cold war," Edward muttered.

"I am," Gabriel replied. "His name is Arik and he smells like caramel when he’s sleeping."

Damian, against all odds, looked faintly smug.

And Edward, for once, stayed silent. Because the heir of the Empire did smell like caramel.

"Hadeon still hopes for the shard to activate?" Gabriel asked, raising the cup of tea while leaning back on his chair.

Edward’s gaze sharpened, all trace of banter vanishing like smoke in a storm.

"Yes," he said, precise as ever. "Though he’s stopped pretending it isn’t about you."

Gabriel sipped his tea slowly. The porcelain cup clicked softly as he set it down. "It never was about the shard. It was always about control. He just needed a vessel convincing enough to distract the rest."

Damian’s fingers, which had been idly tracing the stem of his wine glass, stilled. "Well, he believes that Arik’s golden eyes are a mark that Olivier’s soul is tethered to the child. A fool, really."

"Hmm... Marin said that I can use ether in two weeks." Gabriel said with a smirk on his face.

Edward didn’t even flinch. But his cup paused midway to his lips.

Damian let out a low, amused hum. "Marin said that?" he asked, voice indulgent, but one brow lifted in unmistakable warning. "And I suppose you intend to listen... selectively?"

Gabriel tilted his head, smile sharpening at the edges. "You promised to let me handle it; don’t take it back now."

Edward finally set his cup down with deliberate care. "You were in labor for thirteen hours."

"Thirteen and a half," Damian corrected, eyes never leaving Gabriel. "Not that anyone’s counting."

Gabriel shrugged. "I was the one doing the work. I should get something out of it. Like strategic leverage. Or a war."

Damian leaned forward slightly, his elbow resting on the table, fingers steepled with too much ease for someone trying not to start a fight. "I promised not to interfere," he said, voice velvet-smooth, "not to stop advising."

Gabriel raised a brow, all mock innocence and dry amusement. "And here I thought you were enjoying the brief peace."

"I am," Damian murmured, his hand drifting slowly along Gabriel’s back in a touch that was too gentle for a man known to level cities. "But peace includes rest. You could take more of it."

Gabriel’s lips curled. "You like torturing Hadeon."

A pause. Then Damian smiled, slow, dangerous, and far too pleased. "I do."

The kind of smile that didn’t belong in a nursery or a dining room, but on a battlefield, or worse, a throne.

Gabriel turned slightly toward him, watching the way that golden glint behind Damian’s lashes caught the lamplight like it was born there. "You’re not planning anything without me."

"I wouldn’t dream of it," Damian said smoothly.

"You’re lying."

"Yes," he agreed, without a hint of shame.

Gabriel sighed and reached for his tea again, the porcelain warm in his palm. "You are impossible. But the shard is mine to deal with or... we divorce."

Damian didn’t miss a beat. "We’re not married... yet."

Gabriel turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing with imperial precision. "Ah. And this is the moment it becomes convenient for you to acknowledge that?"

Damian leaned back, one arm draped over the side of the chair with all the smug ease of a man who’d claimed kingdoms and now just wanted the last word. "I’m simply honoring technicalities. You’re the one who insisted on the public ceremony."

Gabriel set his cup down with theatrical care. "Because someone had to have some sense and I was growing a small godling in my spine."

"Which I’m endlessly grateful for," Damian murmured, his smile almost saintly. "But your threats hold less weight when you still wear my ring."

Gabriel looked at his hand. The gold caught the lamplight, warm and sharp. "This was to keep you from panicking, not to formalize a regime."

Edward, still lurking with deliberate neutrality near the bookshelves, muttered something that suspiciously sounded like, "Gods save us all."

Damian raised a brow, but his attention was fully on Gabriel now. "You know I’ll let you handle the shard. But if it endangers you again..."

"It won’t," Gabriel cut in. His voice was soft, but final.

For a moment, silence settled like snowfall.

Then Damian exhaled slowly. "Then promise me you won’t try to face it alone."

Gabriel’s gaze met his, firm and unwavering. "I promise I’ll finish what Olivier started."

Damian’s jaw tensed at the phrasing, but he didn’t argue.

Edward cleared his throat, because of course he did. "If you two are finished emotionally fencing with poisoned roses, might I remind you that Marin expects a checkup tomorrow and Lady Crista sent another crate of moon pears, which she believes the child needs for spiritual resilience."

Gabriel looked faintly horrified. "Spiritual resilience?"

"She said it three times," Edward replied dryly. "In three languages."

Gabriel closed his eyes. "I miss when assassination was the worst thing I had to worry about."

Damian chuckled again, low and golden. "You’re a parent now, Gabriel. Assassins were just the tutorial level."

This 𝓬ontent is taken from f(r)eeweb(n)ovel.𝒄𝒐𝙢