Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 390 - 384: Dealing with court

Damian’s expression softened, a rare flicker of pride easing the usual edge of command from his features. "He wasn’t quiet when he arrived," he said. "But he’s been calm since."

Gabriel leaned back slightly, watching the way Sofia’s shoulders squared the longer she held Arik, as if the realization of his weight, his warmth, was finally catching up to her. The fear faded from her eyes, replaced by something steadier. Something more certain.

"He is so small and cute," she whispered again, this time with a smile. "He smells like... caramel?"

"That’s Gabriel," Damian said dryly.

Gabriel gave him a warning look. "Don’t blame me for your son’s superior scent profile."

Crista, meanwhile, had stood and quietly stepped behind Sofia, her eyes on the child, not with longing, but something older. She didn’t reach to hold Arik. She only looked. Then, after a breath too long, she spoke.

"Do you know what the court says?" she asked, her voice quieter now. "They say the heir has golden eyes because the gods chose him." Her gaze shifted to Gabriel. "I say it’s because the Empire finally stopped bleeding."

Gabriel blinked again, this time slower. Crista’s words settled over the room like silk draped over armor, soft to the touch, but designed to conceal something dangerous underneath.

Then came Christian’s sigh, long and dramatic enough to rattle the moment.

"That," came Christian’s voice from the armchair, tone dry as bone, "or the fact that now it’s a battle between me and a seven-day-old child for the throne. Nobles are already shifting."

He flopped with deliberate grace into the armchair beside the hearth, tossing one leg over the other like a prince trying to forget he still had duties. "I was going to wait until I turned thirty before abdicating my birthright to a sleeping cherub. But apparently, I no longer have that luxury."

Gabriel, still half-reclined, lifted a brow. "You’re twenty-six."

"Details," Christian muttered. "The point is, I’ve been usurped by a baby who smells like dessert and looks like a divine marketing campaign."

Sofia stifled a laugh, careful not to jostle Arik. Crista, however, did not smile. Her gaze lingered on Gabriel, unreadable.

"You are pissed off because after you fought with teeth for Astana, nobles are implying you should choose your consort wisely for the future of the throne." Damian said from his changing room, his voice strangely clear.

Christian’s head tilted toward the dressing alcove with the kind of exasperated reverence one reserved only for older brothers. "Oh, excellent. The imperial shadow has ears sharper than our security team again."

Gabriel sipped his tea, unfazed. "He’s not wrong, though. You picked Astana knowing full well what the court would do with it."

"I picked Astana because he’s the only person I trust not to drown in their poison," Christian said, the edge beneath his charm finally showing. "And I’ll deal with the fallout."

"You’re dealing with it now," Crista said flatly.

Her voice cut through the air, not scolding, not cruel, but heavy with something older than either of them. She turned fully toward Christian then, not to shame, but to remind.

"You can love whomever you want, Christian. But you were born into a legacy that’s been rebuilt with ash and teeth. If the nobles see cracks, they’ll dig. And this time, they won’t stop with you."

Christian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He only looked at Sofia, who was now completely transfixed by Arik’s tiny fingers curling and uncurling in sleep.

"It’s unfair," she said quietly, not to anyone in particular.

"It is," Gabriel agreed, just as soft. "But fair has never been the foundation of empire."

Damian finally emerged from the alcove, dressed in a black shirt and white slacks , with his damp hair slicked back. He crossed the room and stopped beside Gabriel, placing a hand on the back of his mate’s chair.

"Well, they are searching for someone to play with," Cristian said, lounging in his chair. "I can play that game too... or ruin their game."

Damian’s hand tightened slightly at Gabriel’s shoulder. "Leave those useful alive."

Christian tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief that didn’t quite reach the bitterness beneath. "That’s it? No long lecture about imperial optics and diplomacy?"

Damian’s mouth curved into something faintly resembling a smile—cold, amused, lethal. "I assume you already gave it to yourself. You’re just waiting for me to say it aloud so you can ignore it with a clear conscience."

Gabriel didn’t look up from his tea. "He’s not wrong."

Christian sighed, draping an arm over the side of the chair. "Fine. I’ll be selective with my chaos."

"Plus, that would keep the nobles busy enough so Arik would grow without marriage talks while he is in diapers," Damian added.

Christian barked a laugh at that, more amused than he should’ve been. "You think that’ll stop them? Half of them are already drawing up engagement contracts. I intercepted one addressed to the Temple, asking for divine omens."

Gabriel made a sound between a scoff and a groan. "He’s seven days old."

"Seven days old with a name, a title, and eyes that look like judgment." Christian pointed toward the bundle in Sofia’s arms. "You may as well have carved ’destiny’ into his forehead."

Damian exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that might have been a laugh if it weren’t weighted down by memory and caution. His fingers traced a quiet arc along Gabriel’s shoulder before sliding lower, resting over the mark at the base of his neck, territorial without being possessive.

"They can write whatever contracts they want," Damian murmured. "But no one touches him. Not while I’m alive."

"Correction," Gabriel said, lifting his gaze, deceptively calm. "Not while either of us is alive. If another noble tries to betroth their inbred heir to my son again, I’ll make them marry each other and call it political unity."

Christian choked. Crista looked like she wasn’t sure whether to smirk or sigh. Sofia blinked down at Arik, as if startled that anyone could want something so... delicate for war.

"You’re serious," Christian said.

Gabriel turned to him with the faintest curve of his lips. "I’m in recovery, mostly on bed rest, and bored. What do you think I’m doing?"

Damian didn’t deny it. He looked far too proud.

Gabriel, still reclined, gave a theatrical sigh. "I’m not asking much. Just political loyalty, a functioning moral compass, and the ability to spell their own name. Failing that, they can marry each other and create a family tree so twisted it’ll collapse under its own shame."

Crista finally laughed, quiet, dry, the kind that sounded like it hadn’t escaped her throat in days. "I suppose I should warn the House of Everline not to send another proposal."

"No need," Damian murmured. "Their envoy already limped back south. He’ll think twice before commenting on bondmark placement again."

Christian leaned on the back of the chair, studying Gabriel with mock wariness. "Good thing that Max is busy with his wedding preparations or this would escalate."

Damian hummed, not quite disagreeing. "Max would’ve offered to officiate the duel."

"Only after personally engraving the insult onto a ceremonial dagger," Gabriel added dryly.

Crista muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "I warned his mother."

Sofia looked at all of them, eyes wide. "Is this... normal?"

Christian clapped her gently on the shoulder. "Welcome to the imperial family. Our love language is war crimes and subtle threats."

Gabriel chuckled. "And if we like you, we make you tea."

Damian leaned down, brushing his lips against Gabriel’s temple. "Or carry you to bed while you pretend not to enjoy it."

"I’m not pretending," Gabriel replied without missing a beat. "I’m recovering. Which is the only reason you’re still standing."

Christian groaned. "Okay, I’m leaving before this turns into scented sedition."

Crista finally stepped away from the hearth, adjusting her shawl. "Let me know when the next proposal arrives. I’d like to see how you make a duke marry his cousin."

"I’m thinking of a mass ceremony," Gabriel said sweetly. "With invitations. And press coverage."

Damian grinned. "My mate is merciful. You should’ve seen my draft."