Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 277 - 272: Descending in heat (1)

The water had long gone still.

Gabriel sat at the edge of the massive bath, robe draped loose over his shoulders, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, not of the bath he took, but the pulse building beneath his own. A low, aching pressure curled in his stomach like a coil tightening with every breath. The onset was no longer creeping.

It had arrived.

His heat had bloomed in full, merciless and quiet.

He stood carefully, movements fluid but tight, and stepped barefoot into the adjacent room, where the air was heavier, warmer, and already tuned to his body.

Edward had been here. The signs were unmistakable.

The table had been set with surgical precision. Real food, plated simply: warm bread, crisp fruit, soft-cooked grains with herbs, spiced broth, tea. Not engineered, but still chosen for its nutrients.

The curtains were drawn. The fireplace had been lit and then dimmed down again, just enough to keep the room cozy without suffocating.

And Edward—gone.

No Shadows, no attendants, no palace staff pretending to busy themselves in the hallway. The silence was absolute.

Gabriel let out a breath and moved toward the table, fingers brushing the edge as he sat, grounding himself in something real while his body betrayed him in waves. He tore a piece of bread and dipped it absently in the broth. Ate slowly. Mechanically, hoping to divert his attention to the food, but it didn’t work.

Not when the bond was already lighting up beneath his skin, warm and electric, like anticipation had taken shape.

’He’s close.’

Gabriel closed his eyes for a moment, sensing the presence pressing in from just beyond the walls. Faint. Familiar. A scent threaded through with iron, cedar, and stormlight —Damian.

It rolled over him before the door moved. Before the air shifted. Before a sound marked his arrival.

And then, from the far corner of the room—where the fireplace cast long shadows against the polished floor—something shifted.

Moved.

"Took you long enough," Gabriel said, eyes still half-lidded as he turned toward the darkness.

Damian emerged, changed out of his tactical gear, the black field coat gone. He wore a dark shirt now, simple and fitted, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was damp from a recent wash, curling slightly at the ends. The sweat, dust, and blood from the field were gone, but he still carried the edge of the battlefield with him. That coiled calm, the precision of a man who hadn’t quite put down the sword even after stepping into warmth.

His golden gaze met Gabriel’s.

"You’re early," Damian said quietly, his voice low as thunder behind velvet.

Gabriel arched a brow. "No. You’re late."

Damian stepped closer, slow and controlled, his entire being focused on the scent that was slowly engulfing the room from Gabriel. "I came the moment I felt it break through the shielding."

Gabriel smirked, faint and sharp. "Then I suggest you talk to Edward about your internal clock. He’s been preparing this wing like a coronation was happening between my thighs."

Damian stopped beside the table. His hand hovered over the chair, but he didn’t sit. He just looked—drank him in. Gabriel’s skin flushed from heat, the robe loose against his collarbone, the sharpness still in his gaze despite the weight pressing on him from inside.

"You’re in pain," Damian murmured. Not a question.

"I’m managing."

"I can help." He reached out, slow, reverent, fingers brushing the curve of Gabriel’s jaw with a gentleness that belied the lethal strength in his hand.

Gabriel leaned into the touch for a moment before rising from his chair with quiet grace, the robe parting slightly around his legs as he moved.

He stood in front of Damian now, chin tilted just slightly upward, golden light catching in his eyes.

Damian stood still, chest rising with slow, measured breaths—his restraint visible in every tight line of muscle, every clenched joint in his jaw. He had hoped to see Gabriel reach for him, lean into him, and see him without his guard up.

Gabriel’s hands reached for Damian’s belt with a smooth, almost reverent motion. His fingers trembled from the heat, coiled thick and aching beneath his skin, making it impossible to breathe without feeling.

The leather loosened under his touch. The buckle gave way.

Damian’s lips parted slightly, sharply, as Gabriel dropped to his knees.

"Gabriel," Damian breathed, low and already fraying at the edges.

Gabriel didn’t answer.

He looked up—eyes hazy, pupils blown wide, skin flushed from the heat coiling through him—and with a practiced flick of his wrist, he freed Damian from the last barrier between them.

Damian swore under his breath. His hand gripped the table behind him like it was the only thing anchoring him to sanity. The muscles in his forearm flexed tight. But he didn’t move. He didn’t dare.

Gabriel’s fingers curled around him with a quiet reverence that made it worse, made Damian’s jaw clench, made every breath shallow. The first slow lick drew a ragged sound from his throat, something rough and bitten back. He tilted his head back only for a second, but it was enough for Gabriel to take more.

His mouth slid down, slow and unyielding, lips wet and warm, wrapping around him with purpose. He moved like he was drawing lines in ink—steady, decisive, and impossible to erase.

Damian’s control, already frayed from the moment he entered the room, began to snap one thread at a time.

"Gabriel," he breathed again, but it came out hoarse. Warning. Desperate.

Gabriel didn’t stop. He hummed around him, the vibration crawling up Damian’s spine like static. His hands were firm, holding Damian in place. Like he knew Damian wouldn’t stop him. Like he knew he couldn’t.

"You have no idea what you’re doing," Damian ground out, voice guttural now, chest heaving.

Gabriel pulled back slowly, the motion obscene in its patience, and looked up through lashes wet from heat.

"I know exactly what I’m doing," he whispered.

Then he took him again, deeper this time, until Damian’s restraint shattered like glass under weight. His hips jerked forward before he caught himself, muscles tensing with a groan torn from somewhere primal.

He was losing it. Fast.

And Gabriel—beautiful, dangerous, sovereign even in submission—was letting him.