Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL) Chapter 176 - 171: Luncheon (2)

Max looked like he’d just been slapped with a wine-soaked napkin. "Oh no."

Christian mouthed, We’re so dead.

Behind them, Damian approached with all the subtlety of a storm in formalwear—polite, well-dressed, and impossible to ignore.

Astana and Captain Leslie Decker followed at a discreet pace behind, both expertly pretending they hadn’t heard a thing.

"I take it the wine is working," Damian said lightly, eyes on Gabriel leaving with Crista.

Damian turned fully toward them now, expression mild—too mild.

Max cleared his throat. "It was all in good fun."

Damian’s gaze drifted from Max to Christian with all the serenity of a man weighing his next execution.

"You seem free enough to discuss dical matters over wine," he said, voice clipped.

Christian groaned quietly. "This luncheon has already cost a full afternoon of work. I’m going to be behind for days."

"I thought this was better than dealing with Anya," Max added helpfully, swirling his wine in a way that said, Do not execute ; I’m charming.

Damian arched a brow. "So you would rather gossip about my consort’s dical records than celebrate Christian’s extended freedom?"

Christian didn’t miss a beat. "Extended freedom is a myth. I’m already late to a eting that was rescheduled three tis so I could sit here and contemplate fruit shaped like imperial symbols."

Max jabbed his fork into a suspiciously symtrical strawberry. "I still think it’s an insult. This one looks like the Ministry of Agriculture."

Damian looked down at the table, at his brothers, and then briefly closed his eyes in what could have been an ancient prayer of patience.

"I asked for twenty minutes of peace," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Christian leaned in, eyes glittering with mischief. "You’re the one who made Gabriel a consort. What did you expect? Silence?"

Max grinned. "He’s half the reason we’re still entertained. The other half is watching you try to look unaffected every ti he breathes."

Damian didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

His gaze had already drifted toward the balcony.

A steward approached Crista with a quiet word, one that seed urgent based on the subtle tilt of her head. She gave Gabriel’s arm a soft pat and muttered, "Stay out of trouble for five minutes," before turning to follow the summons.

Gabriel, for his part, leaned his elbows on the balcony railing like a man deciding whether to survive the rest of the luncheon or simply launch himself into the nearest fountain.

Inside, Max tracked the shift in the room like a seasoned predator watching two rival beasts head for the sa stretch of unguarded territory.

"Oh no," he said under his breath.

Christian, still nursing his third plate of appetizers and emotional damage from earlier, looked up. "What now?"

Max didn’t look away from the balcony. "Look left. Grand Duke Daniel Rhine. Anya’s uncle. Sharp coat, bright blue eyes, expression like soone just insulted his wine collection."

Christian’s brows rose. "That’s never good."

"And now," Max continued, voice tight with dramatic dread, "look right. Elliot. Foaming at the mouth. Probably rehearsing an insult in iambic pentater."

Christian groaned. "Please tell one of them will be discreet."

"They’re nobles," Max said. "They think volu is for commoners but venom is hereditary."

Daniel Rhine moved quickly and gracefully, but with purpose. Before Elliot could even fully detach from his own table, the Grand Duke had reached the balcony steps and greeted Gabriel with a half-bow, the kind that acknowledged status while carefully reminding everyone of his own.

Gabriel turned toward him with a flick of his eyes and returned the bow with elegance and familiarity. They knew each other.

"Your Grace," Daniel said, his voice smooth as polished marble. "The Empire never fails to provide spectacle, but today’s performance may be my favorite."

Gabriel didn’t smile. He rarely did. But there was a flicker of sothing beneath the surface—wry, subtle, tired.

"You always did enjoy politics served cold."

Daniel’s mouth curled slightly. "It’s more palatable than Paisian wine these days."

Gabriel’s fingers tapped lightly against the railing. "Then I hope today’s luncheon is to your taste. I assu you ca to deliver comntary or condolences?"

"Neither," Daniel said. "Today is strictly personal. We didn’t see each other in... almost six years?"

"Indeed..." Gabriel said quietly. "Ti flies."

Daniel smiled faintly, and sothing in his posture shifted—just enough to ease the air between them. Less Grand Duke, more old acquaintance. "I’m still amazed by your skills, Dominie."

Gabriel froze—not outwardly, not with a jolt or flinch—but inwardly, sothing pulled tight.

He hadn’t heard it spoken aloud in years. Not since the night the palace burned and the rebellion crossed from whispers to war. It wasn’t a title or a rank. It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t even real.

It was the pseudonym he wore like a mask. The one he’d used to send ssages through rebel networks, to negotiate secret arms routes, to move pieces across the board while the world believed he was dead or silent or simply too young to matter.

It was the na that made empires fall.

And the na that built the one Damian now ruled.

Only three people in the Empire knew what Dominie ant.

Damian.

Crista.

Edward.

And they guarded that knowledge like it was forged in iron.

But Daniel had spoken it without hesitation. Smoothly. Intimately. It was as if he had once walked alongside Dominie, not as an enemy or traitor, but as an equal.

Gabriel’s hand had stilled against the railing. His wineglass remained untouched.

The breeze brushed his collar, cool and unwelco.

How many more knew?

How many more were still watching?

And how many of them thought Dominie still had sothing left to give?

Daniel’s voice lowered, calm and knowing. "I’m not here to ask sothing from you."

Gabriel turned his gaze toward the Grand Duke, sharp and silent.

"I’ve heard that you sohow lost your mories..." Daniel continued, the weight of each word carefully asured. "And I wanted to give back at least sothing."

There was no urgency in his tone. No warning. Just quiet intent, like soone placing a sealed letter on a table, knowing it would be opened when the ti was right.

Gabriel didn’t blink. "And that sothing is...?"

Daniel smiled softly, too tired for politics and too direct for subterfuge. "First, I will make my moves soon. Anya’s fall had helped my position more than I hoped." He sighed.

Gabriel stayed still. He sohow knew. The king, Daniel’s brother, was despised by many; now it was his turn to fall.

Then Daniel said, low and without theatrics:

"Don’t trust Lucius."