Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)

Gabriel didn't linger over the wine. One glass, then he set it down with a decisive clink and crossed the room toward the nursery door without so much as a glance at Damian.

Damian followed with the steady pace of a man who had no intention of being left behind. The warm, low light in Arik's room spilled across the hall as Gabriel pushed the door open. The faint hum of the ether cradle filled the quiet, along with the soft, almost imperceptible sound of their son's breathing.

Arik was still small enough to be swallowed by the blanket, with only the crown of dark hair visible. Gabriel bent over the cradle, fingers brushing over the fine weave, smoothing a wrinkle that wasn't really there. He stayed there longer than necessary, letting the quiet sink into his bones.

Damian came to stand beside him, saying nothing at first. His hand found the edge of the cradle, thumb tracing the polished grain of the wood before it skimmed the blanket. He adjusted a fold near Arik's shoulder, careful not to wake him, and for once didn't use the movement as an excuse to touch Gabriel.

They stood like that for a while, two stubborn men unwilling to break a silence that was already fraying around the edges.

Gabriel's eyes stayed on Arik. "If you wake him, you're on night duty."

Damian's mouth curved, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Only if the omega parent is talking instead of sulking."

Gabriel didn't even glance at him. "Then I hope you like sleepless nights."

He straightened, giving the blanket one last unnecessary tug before stepping back. The faint shift of air as he moved was enough to make Arik stir, but not wake. Damian's gaze lingered on their son a heartbeat longer, his expression unreadable, before he followed Gabriel out.

Gabriel went straight to the bathing room, shrugging the cursed robe from his shoulders the moment the door clicked shut behind him. The hiss of water against heated tile filled the air, steam rising in slow, deliberate coils until the mirror blurred into nothing. He stepped beneath the spray, letting the heat work into his skin, washing away the taut, lingering hum of irritation, drowning out the echo of Damian's voice.

He was irritated with both Damian and Edward, two men who seemed to find an endless, personal joy in making his life more complicated. Damian could have locked the study door with a flick of his fingers, yet hadn't bothered. And Edward… Edward was a fucking shadow. He knew exactly what he was walking into, and still his pride had pushed him through that door, all for the petty satisfaction of scoring a point.

And that point, Gabriel thought darkly, had landed squarely on him. Because Damian had no shame to wound.

When Gabriel finally stepped out, the air was thick with steam, the scent of his soap clinging stubbornly to the damp heat. He toweled off briskly, combed his hair back with his fingers, and reached for his own robe, loose, plain, and blessedly free of any memory that might keep him from calming down.

He opened the door… and paused.

Damian was there.

He leaned against the frame of the adjoining room's doorway, freshly bathed, his dark hair loose around his shoulders in a way that softened nothing about him. The water had left it darker, heavier, a silken black curtain that caught the light when he moved. One hand rested loosely at his side; the other held a low, square glass, the amber liquid inside catching the light with every faint shift of his fingers. The scent of it, sharp, warm, and unmistakably strong, threaded faintly through the lingering steam.

Beneath the open edge of his robe, the faint shimmer of ether-scorched channels traced the lines of his forearms and hands, scars still healing, still stubborn, and still a silent reminder of what he'd burned out of himself for Gabriel and Arik. They glimmered faintly under the warm lights, like something half-living, half-etched into him forever.

The robe hung loose at his hips, the knot tied loosely, exposing the clean planes of muscle earned from training almost every day. In this light, he looked less like an emperor and more like some impossible thing conjured for a magazine cover. Except for the way his gaze stayed fixed on Gabriel, steady and unblinking, as if the rest of the world didn't exist.

For a moment, Gabriel's irritation faltered, replaced by the sharp, dangerous pull of wanting to close the space between them, to kiss him and end the ridiculous silence. He didn't.

Instead, he walked past without looking at him, heading for the wardrobe. "Are we having a private dinner?" he asked, his voice stripped of anything that could be mistaken for warmth.

Damian's answer came unhurried, with the faint clink of glass against his teeth before he swallowed. "Only if you count the entire west terrace as private."

Gabriel pulled open the wardrobe doors, the faint scent of cedar and pressed linen spilling into the air. He sifted through the neatly arranged rows without turning his head, fingers grazing fabrics without choosing one. "That's hardly private."

"Then I'll send them all away," Damian said, still in that maddeningly calm voice, as though dismissing half the palace's staff was as simple as exhaling.

Gabriel didn't look back. He reached for a dark shirt, smooth under his hands, and laid it out with deliberate precision on the bed. "Don't bother," he said, the words quiet but edged. "I'd hate to ruin your evening."

Behind him, Damian's robe shifted faintly as he stepped away from the doorframe. His bare feet made no sound on the carpet, but the weight of his presence pressed closer, circling without touching. "You couldn't ruin my evening if you tried," he murmured, the words low, certain. The soft clink of glass meeting wood followed a moment later, the sound small but intentional in the quiet. Set down on the shelf inside the wardrobe, close enough for Gabriel to feel the faint drift of its sharp amber scent curl into the air between them.

Gabriel kept his eyes on the row of shirts, fingers brushing along smooth cotton and cool silk as if the choice demanded his full attention. It didn't. His pulse was already keeping time to the nearness at his back, steady but insistent, each breath drawing in the warm ghost of Damian's soap and something darker, more dangerous, beneath it.

"But I'm sure you can make it better."