Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 220 - 215: The Lemon Rebellion

The sunlight spilled across the imperial breakfast room like liquid gold—gentle and refined, as if it too had learned to bow within the palace walls. A soft spring breeze stirred the tall curtains, the scent of jasmine sneaking in from the gardens just beyond the glass.

Gabriel sat at the smaller table reserved for quiet mornings, barefoot, half-dressed in one of Damian’s sleep shirts that hung off his shoulder like he wore the empire casually. Across from him, Damian sat in perfect posture, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a diplomatic report forgotten beside his tea.

The morning had, so far, been good.

Damian had allowed coffee. Real coffee. No tea substitutes, no root infusions, no smug Edward standing nearby with a judgmental brow.

Gabriel was halfway through his second cup, legs folded under him like a cat in sunlight, visibly pleased with the silence and the mild sweetness of quiet victory. He extended his hand lazily, reaching for one of the lemon-glazed pastries on the porcelain tray between them, the scent bright and sharp with citrus.

And then—

It hit him like a truck.

The world didn’t tilt. It lurched.

His stomach twisted so violently he dropped the pastry halfway to his plate. The coffee in his other hand sloshed over the rim, narrowly missing his wrist. His throat tightened with a sudden, deep nausea so intense it felt like something had turned inside out.

"Ugh—" Gabriel grunted, clenching his eyes shut and pushing back from the table.

Damian was up instantly.

"Gabriel?"

Gabriel’s chair scraped back, his hand braced on the table, breathing shallow. "No. No, no, no, not at breakfast—"

Damian reached him just as Gabriel stood up too fast, swayed, and grabbed the back of the chair with one hand and Damian’s shirt with the other.

For a brief moment, Gabriel’s grip was tight—too tight—and his breath hitched in his throat, panic blooming just beneath the nausea.

Three days ago, he had wanted this to be real. Had needed it to be. Proof that he hadn’t imagined the weight in his chest, the heat in his skin, or the pressure beneath his ribs.

But now?

Now he would have traded all the confirmation in the world for the peace he had before.

"I don’t need the symptoms anymore," he thought bitterly, mouth already filling with that unmistakable warning.

He let go of Damian’s shirt.

And bolted.

The sound of his bare feet hitting the tile echoed down the corridor as he sprinted toward the nearest bathroom, throwing the door open with the urgency of someone who definitely wasn’t making it twice in a row.

The door slammed behind him.

What followed was not elegant. Not imperial. Just five minutes of pure misery—his knees against the cool tile, one hand braced on the edge of the sink, the other gripping the wall as if it might keep the world from spinning off its axis.

By the end of it, his stomach was empty. His pride wasn’t far behind.

His forehead pressed to the cold porcelain, breath shallow and sticky. Every muscle in his abdomen ached, and his throat burned from the acid. A part of him briefly considered staging a quiet revolution against his own body.

And then—

A soft knock.

Not demanding. Not concerned.

Just there.

He turned his head slightly—and there was Damian, already inside, crouched a short distance away with the quiet patience of someone who had not been horrified by the last five minutes. He held out a glass of cold water without comment, the condensation sliding down his fingers.

Gabriel blinked at him, still panting lightly.

"You came in here," he rasped.

Damian raised an eyebrow. "You yelled something about burning the palace down. I thought it best to intervene."

Gabriel reached for the glass with a groan, using the other hand to wipe his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Gods, this is undignified."

"I don’t think this is supposed to be dignified," Damian replied dryly, crouching beside him with the faintest trace of sympathy in his eyes. "It’s pregnancy."

Gabriel leveled a glare at the wall opposite the toilet like it had personally betrayed him. "The physician said this would happen late. After six weeks."

He took a sip of water, swished it once, and spat it into the basin like it might erase the memory of lemon glaze from his mouth.

"Lies," he hissed dramatically.

Damian let out a soft chuckle, reaching for the glass from him with one hand while his other hovered near Gabriel’s shoulder, steady just in case he swayed again.

"In his defense," he said, tone dry but not without warmth, "I think he said usually after six weeks."

Gabriel didn’t even lift his head. He just groaned into his folded arms, his voice muffled and miserable. "Well, someone should inform my body that it missed the deadline for normal."

"I think your body got the imperial memo early," Damian murmured, setting the glass aside. "Never late. Always dramatic."

Gabriel lifted his head just enough to glare at him. "I hate you."

"You don’t," Damian replied smoothly, brushing a cool cloth over the back of Gabriel’s neck. "You hate being vulnerable. This is different."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "You know, you’re very confident for someone I could still hex."

"You won’t," Damian said, far too calmly. "Because then I’d stop brushing your hair back like this."

He demonstrated, fingers sliding gently through the damp strands at Gabriel’s temple. Gabriel let out a tired noise, somewhere between a sigh and a grumble, and leaned his head against Damian’s thigh with defeated grace.

There was a beat of quiet. Then—

"Today I have to host a tea party for the first time," Gabriel muttered, voice flat, eyes still closed. "The theme is citrus." ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

Damian blinked.

Then said, very gently, "You’re joking."

Gabriel made a low, murderous sound. "Do I look like I’m joking?"

Damian glanced at the water glass, then at the rumpled shirt half-hanging off Gabriel’s shoulder, then toward the direction of the still-doomed lemon pastries back in the dining room.

"No," he said carefully. "You look like you’re about to declare war on a fruit group."

Gabriel didn’t move. His head still rested against Damian’s thigh, one hand loosely curled in the fabric of the Emperor’s shirt like a lifeline.

"I will make everyone suffer with me," he muttered, voice low and vengeful.