Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 233 - 228: Delirium (BONUS)

Damian lingered by the window for a moment longer, his hands loose behind his back.

The storm outside clawed against the glass, relentless.

It mirrored the one rising inside him — not anger, not yet, but something colder.

Inevitable.

He turned away, his black and gold coat sweeping behind him like a shadow, and crossed the room with decisive steps.

"Clear the rest of my evening," he ordered without looking back.

Astana bowed low. "As you command, sire."

Damian didn’t wait for further acknowledgment.

The heavy double doors of the imperial office swung open, guards snapping to attention as he passed.

He barely noticed them.

His mind was already elsewhere, in the palace’s private wing, crossing the threshold into the only space where the storm inside him calmed down.

—

The corridors blurred past Damian, with dark stone, velvet runners, and the distant hum of ether lights, until he reached the familiar wing guarded by the Shadows.

He entered the private apartments silently, his boots whispering across the floor.

The sitting room was dim, the hearth burning low.

Faint traces of Gabriel’s scent hung in the air, sharp, cool, familiar, but thinner than Damian liked.

His jaw tightened.

He moved deeper into the quarters, toward the bedroom, the doors half-open.

Inside, Gabriel lay curled on the vast bed, still dressed in loose black robes. His face was pale against the dark sheets, with a faint line between his brows revealing the pain he tried and failed to hide.

The heavy drapes were half-drawn, letting only a soft, muted glow filter in from the snow-blurred afternoon.

Gabriel shifted slightly, pressing his forehead against his arm, as if the weight of the world — or maybe just the pounding in his skull — was too much.

Damian’s chest constricted sharply at the sight.

The morning sickness had worsened almost overnight, mutating into an anytime sickness that left Gabriel dizzy, nauseous, and quietly furious whenever anyone tried to fuss over him.

Damian crossed the room in a few long strides, his movements careful, silent.

Gabriel didn’t look up. He muttered something under his breath — a curse, maybe — and shifted again, trying to find a position where the nausea didn’t claw up his throat.

Damian sat on the edge of the bed slowly, lowering himself with deliberate control.

He reached out and brushed Gabriel’s hair back from his damp forehead with the lightest touch.

"Not even the calming wards help. What kind of demon did you put in me?"

Damian sat perfectly still for a breath, his fingers still gently stroking Gabriel’s sweat-damp hair.

At the words — slurred, low, bitten through with exhaustion and dry sarcasm — he let out a quiet huff of amusement.

"Hmm... are you sure the child gets this from me?" Damian said mildly, while releasing a slow wave of pheromones — warm, grounding, deeply familiar — into the air between them.

The effect was almost immediate.

Gabriel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, some of the tension in his shoulders finally easing. His fingers unclenched in the sheets, and the scrunched line between his brows softened — not gone, but dulled.

"Arrogance and gaslighting in one sentence," he muttered weakly, eyes still shut. "Impressive, even for you."

"I’ve had practice," Damian murmured, brushing the back of his hand across Gabriel’s cheek, checking the temperature — still too warm, but lower now.

Gabriel shifted slightly, pressing his face into Damian’s thigh with a faint groan, as if both soothed and annoyed by the scent clinging to him.

"Stop trying to drug me with affection."

"I wouldn’t dare," Damian said dryly. "You’d file a complaint with the Imperial Court."

Gabriel made a tired noise — somewhere between a scoff and a groan — but didn’t lift his head.

Then Damian’s tone shifted, barely noticeable to anyone but the man curled against him.

"Now," he said quietly, firmly, "let’s call the physician. This is not normal."

He snapped his fingers once, sharp and precise.

Edward entered soundlessly within seconds, already gloved, eyes sharp behind his neutral expression.

He stopped just inside the room and gave a slight bow, glancing at Gabriel’s unmoving form, the sheen of sweat still clinging to his temples.

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Send for the physician. Now," Damian said, not raising his voice — but with that unmistakable tone that meant failure was not an option.

Edward gave a short nod and turned immediately, the door closing behind him without a word.

Gabriel muttered into Damian’s leg, his voice muffled and hoarse.

"This is dramatic."

"You’re curled into a fetal position, barely breathing, and trying to kill me with sarcasm while your skin burns." Damian looked down at him with narrowed eyes. "We passed dramatic hours ago."

"...If I die," he murmured eventually, "I’m haunting your office. Every time you misplace a report, it’ll be me."

"Mmhmm... sure, love," Damian murmured, brushing his thumb over Gabriel’s temple, "but you’re delirious."

Gabriel hummed faintly, either in agreement or protest—it was hard to tell. His eyes stayed closed, lashes damp, the edges of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but had forgotten how.

"Delirious," he repeated, almost dreamlike. "That explains why I’m still listening to you."

Damian’s jaw tensed, but his touch remained soft, his fingers trailing down to Gabriel’s cheek, grounding him. "Careful. The last person who insulted me mid-collapse got exiled to a very remote, very damp province."

"So away from Edward and his teas? I might prefer that." Gabriel croaked.

Damian gave a quiet, dangerous hum. "You say that now, but wait until you’ve met the provincial governor. He writes poetry about fish."

Gabriel cracked one bloodshot eye open. "Is this a threat or a hallucination?"

"Depends," Damian murmured, brushing his knuckles along Gabriel’s jaw. "Do you want me to start quoting stanzas?"

"Gods, no," Gabriel muttered, trying to burrow deeper into his robe like he could escape the conversation. "I’m sick, not cursed."

Damian chuckled low in his throat, but the sound didn’t quite reach his eyes. He kept his gaze fixed on Gabriel, cataloging every flicker of pain, every tremor that passed through his limbs.

Then, quieter, more grounded: "You shouldn’t be this sick. Not like this."

Gabriel didn’t answer right away. His hand had found its way to Damian’s coat, fingers loosely curled in the fabric like an anchor.

"...You think it’s the child?" he asked eventually, his voice rough with fatigue but sharper underneath.

"I think someone’s going to bleed if it is anything else," Damian said simply.

Gabriel let out a slow breath through his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching—not quite a smile, but close enough to count in his current condition.

"You only use me as an excuse for your murderous tendencies."

Damian exhaled through his nose, a sound more amused than patient. "I don’t need an excuse, Gabriel."

His hand didn’t stop its slow movement over Gabriel’s hair—calm, rhythmic, anchoring. "You just make it look noble."

Gabriel’s brows lifted slightly, even in his haze. "How flattering. I’ll be sure to include that in my eulogy."

"You’re not dying," Damian said, tone tightening. "I won’t allow it."

"Mm. Good to know that death needs your signature now."

"You can’t restrain yourself even when your life depends on it."