Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 217 - 212: Let Her Hope

Later that night, after everyone had been sent to their rooms, after the fire dimmed to embers and the scent of spice lingered in the drapes like memory, Gabriel finally dozed in the armchair—warm, safe, and curled in the Emperor’s arms.

Damian held him quietly, one hand splayed along Gabriel’s lower back, the other tucked beneath the robe that still clung to Gabriel’s shoulders like a mantle. They didn’t speak for a long time.

Until Gabriel stirred, head resting against Damian’s collarbone, fingers absently drawing slow, aimless circles across the back of his mate’s shoulder blade.

"You’re still here," he murmured, his voice heavy with sleep. "I thought you’d storm off to Patricia by now."

Damian hummed softly, the sound more breath than voice. "She’s not going anywhere."

Gabriel’s fingers kept tracing. The rhythm was slow and hypnotic—comforting, like a lullaby only he knew how to hum. "You’re not worried she’ll try something?"

"In my prison?" Damian’s tone was a low rumble, threaded with certainty. "No. She can’t do anything."

Gabriel gave a sleepy, amused hum. "You sound so sure."

"I am sure." Damian’s hand shifted, brushing against Gabriel’s hip, steadying him. "The cells are warded with imperial seals. Not even a whisper gets out without my permission. But she’s waiting."

"For?"

Damian leaned his head back against the cushion, his jaw brushing the crown of Gabriel’s head. "Her savior."

Gabriel’s lips twitched faintly. "Let me guess—Hadeon?"

"Or whoever she believes still has the spine to challenge me." There was a dangerous quiet in Damian’s voice now, not raised, not sharp—but absolute. "She hasn’t realized yet that he’s already trying to save himself."

Gabriel shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, his voice drowsy. "You sound disappointed."

"I’m not." Damian’s thumb traced a slow path along Gabriel’s side, gentle and grounding. "Let her hope. It’s more effective than chains."

Gabriel made a small noise—agreement, maybe—but didn’t speak again. His breath was warm against Damian’s neck, steady now, no longer laced with tension or doubt. Just exhaustion. And something smaller. Something softer.

Damian let the silence linger a moment longer, content to hold him like this. Just this. No throne. No blood. No whispered betrayals clawing at the edges of their peace.

But then Gabriel shifted again—barely, but enough to let his fingers resume their slow tracing. And Damian smiled, faintly.

"Let’s get you to bed," he murmured, pressing a kiss into the top of Gabriel’s hair. "Edward won’t have mercy tomorrow morning."

Gabriel groaned, the sound muffled against his collarbone. "He never does."

"Especially not when he catches you asleep in the wrong chair, wearing the wrong robe, after threatening to set a duke on fire."

"Count," Gabriel corrected, sluggish but accurate.

Damian chuckled. "See? You’re already sharper than half the council."

Gabriel let out a soft, breathy laugh and finally let himself be shifted. Damian carefully lifted him, arms curling beneath his knees and back, and Gabriel, too exhausted to resist, leaned into the warmth without protest.

I’m not brushing my hair," he mumbled as they moved through the hall.

"That’s fine," Damian said. "I like it messy."

"Pervert," Gabriel whispered, barely audible, but Damian caught it anyway and didn’t bother denying it.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Gabriel was already halfway asleep again, head tucked into Damian’s shoulder like it belonged there. Which it did.

Damian laid him down gently, tucking the covers around him with all the precision of a man who had once led armies but now commanded peace. Gabriel didn’t stir this time, only turned his face into the pillow with a quiet sigh.

Damian stood for a moment beside the bed, watching him. Watching the small swell of breath. The fingers now curled loosely against the blanket.

"Edward," Damian said quietly, without turning.

The shadows near the doorway moved, as if they’d been waiting.

Edward stepped forward, silent as ever, his dark suit immaculate, his expression unreadable. He had not slept. He never did on nights like this.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Change Gabriel for bed; make sure the attendants don’t wake him up."

Damian didn’t look away from Gabriel as he spoke, his voice low, certain.

Edward gave a single, precise nod. "It will be done."

"He’s exhausted. And he won’t ask for help."

"He never does."

Damian’s gaze lingered a moment longer on the quiet shape beneath the sheets—Gabriel, curled into the pillow now, one hand still loosely resting above his stomach, his breath even. Soft shadows played across his cheekbones, turning his sharpness into something younger. More fragile.

"Make sure he stays warm," Damian added. "And don’t let him pretend tomorrow that he’s fine."

"I never do," Edward said, already moving toward the wardrobe with the quiet grace of a man born into service but trained for war. "Leave it to me."

Damian finally stepped back, his shadow slipping into the hall with the soft sound of boots on marble.

And Edward, alone now in the room with a sleeping consort and the first thread of imperial legacy tucked beneath silk and silence, began the task without delay.

—

Time had lost its structure.

Patricia didn’t know how long she had been in the cell. Hours? A day? The walls didn’t answer. The ether lanterns embedded in the stone flickered on their own cycle, artificial and cruel. The warmth from her vanity—her perfume, her jewelry, her titles—had long since faded.

They had taken her rings. Her shoes. Even her comb. Left her in a thin dress, no embroidery, no lace.

Just the cold.

No one had come. Not a single word. Not a single face. Not even the hiss of gossip through the slits in the stone.

She had expected screaming. Confrontation. She had wanted it, in a way. To explain, to claw her way out of the story being written without her.

But the silence was worse.

She sat straight-backed on the bench, refusing to slump, ankles crossed, hair pinned without a mirror to check it. She kept her posture out of habit—noble-bred and practiced—but her hands were cold.

She had pressed the ring the moment they took her. Not for flair. For strategy.

Someone would come.

He would come.

Hadeon always came. He would never let her rot here, not when her knowledge still held value. Not when their fates had once been tied behind velvet curtains and war-room doors.

The air shifted.

She felt it before she heard it—the subtle change in pressure, the warmth of power threading down the corridor like a storm that refused to announce itself. No clatter of boots. No guards. Just magic, thick and silent.

The door opened.

She stood.

And in walked the Emperor.