Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL) Chapter 267: Chapter 261: You Were a Coward

"Worse," Damian replied. "He’s stupid enough to think I’m distracted."

The wind shifted faintly across the ridge, but neither of them moved.

Max crossed his arms. "Does Gabriel know?"

"No," Damian said. "And he won’t. Not until I’m done."

Max gave a slow exhale through his nose. "You’re going to break him."

"I’m going to unwrap him," Damian said coldly. "Layer by layer. Until I know every na he’s spoken to, every coin he’s passed, and every whisper he’s fed to George."

He turned his gaze back toward the field, where Shadows clashed in perfect silence.

"And then I’ll let Gregoris decide if he’s worth burying whole."

Max’s voice was quiet but clear. "You can deal with Callahan. I’ll take care of George."

Damian didn’t look away from the field. "You’re asking for permission."

"I’m not asking," Max replied. "I’m informing you before it’s too late to retract the blade."

That earned Damian’s attention.

He turned, slow and deliberate, golden gaze steady. "You think he’s that far gone?"

"I know he is." Max’s tone was stripped of humor. "He’s gone behind your back three tis in the last quarter alone. He’s aligning himself with Elliot’s network, indirectly supporting Hadeon, and trying to use Gabriel’s na in closed conversations like it’s a wedge—not a shield."

Damian said nothing, but the tension in his jaw told Max he already suspected most of it.

Max stepped closer. "You’ve given him chances. More than most. More than I would’ve. But this is my na too. He made his heir and then tried to use that to reach higher than the Empire would ever allow."

He paused, his gaze dropping for just a mont.

"I know you did it for ," he said quietly. "You gave him chances for ."

His voice trembled—not much, but enough to make the silence between them feel heavier.

"You don’t have to anymore."

Damian didn’t say anything; he was waiting for Max to justify his choice.

Max’s jaw tightened. "You asked , once, why I never told you who my mate is."

Damian nodded once, cautious now. Still.

Max’s eyes flicked up. "It’s not because of you. It was never because of you."

He exhaled, unsteady, his green eyes filled with determination.

"It was because of George. He used Adam like a leash. Quiet threats. Disapproval. Reminders of what could happen if I stepped too far out of line. He never said it plainly, but I knew. I always knew."

His hands curled slightly at his sides.

"You were right," Max said, voice rough. "I was a coward."

Damian’s expression didn’t shift, but sothing in the line of his shoulders eased. He understood Max’s weariness, but he was still angry at his decision to keep his mate away from even him. Not because he was particularly interested in his mate, but because his younger brother didn’t trust him to ask for help.

"You were," he said simply.

Max blinked. "Are you trying to encourage ?"

"No," Damian replied, calm as a blade sliding back into its sheath. "I’m telling you the truth. You were a coward. And now you’re not."

Max snorted, dryly. "Inspiring."

"You don’t need inspiring," Damian said. "You need resolve."

A pause.

"Which," he added, "you seem to have. Finally."

Max gave him a look. "You really are terrible at comfort."

"I’m not here to comfort you," Damian replied. "I’m here to make sure when you kill him, you don’t hesitate."

That landed.

Max nodded once, sharply.

"Don’t worry," he said. "I won’t."

—

Callahan hadn’t realized he’d been diverted until it was too late.

The vehicle ride had been silent—smooth, efficient, and flanked by royal guards in ceremonial uniforms. No restraints. No threats. Only the polite firmness of protocol and a single ssage delivered that morning with a royal seal:

"His Grace, Consort Gabriel von Jaunez, accepted to et you at the palace. The eting will be coordinated by the palace. We appreciate your understanding for the Imperial Consort’s safety."

There’d been a signature, a stamp, and a courier in gold-trimd uniform. Everything official. Everything asured.

So Callahan complied.

He adjusted his cuffs. He practiced his smile. He even brought a dossier of prepared statents designed to shift bla, rewrite tilines, and suggest—gently—that he had once protected Gabriel from worse forces. He’d planned for tears. Guilt. So naive trace of gratitude.

That he had no choice but to keep him alive through suffering, whereas George and Max would not be affected by Hadeon because he did the unthinkable.

The palace gates opened. Or what he thought were the palace gates.

The outer walls looked correct, imposing, carved with the Lyon crest. The guards didn’t stop him. His identification passed. The windows were the sa cut-glass patterns, and the marble underfoot bore the sa gold-lined filigree. Even the scent, cypress oil and lavender, matched the formal wing of the Imperial Residence.

But sothing was wrong.

The corners were too quiet. The staff too still. Every guard he passed gave the sa nod, not deferential, but rehearsed. And the halls, though familiar, had a symtry that disturbed him. Like they’d been built from mory rather than history.

When the escort paused before a pair of tall, darkened doors, Callahan offered a final adjustnt to his coat and ran one hand through his graying hair.

He pictured Gabriel waiting inside.

Young. Pale. Probably exhausted after dealing not only with the contract left behind by Olivier, but also the poison that had lain dormant—cleverly hidden, waiting for a bond, a child, anything permanent to latch onto.

It was poetic, in a way.

Gabriel, the tragic oga. The Empire’s delicate centerpiece. The one person Callahan could still manipulate if he played the right card. Sympathy. Regret. Maybe even sha.

He would start soft—acknowledge his role, bla it on pressure from higher forces, and then pivot: he’d tried to help, he’d warned others, and he’d distanced himself from George. If he played the loyalist just long enough, Gabriel might intervene.

He might even save him. Damian saved him once because of George and their relationship with Gabriel; chances are he will do it again.

The guard gave a nod, then pushed the doors open.

Callahan stepped inside.

And stopped.

It wasn’t a sitting room.

It wasn’t even part of the palace.

The scent hit first—clean stone and cold air, unperfud and unsentintal. The room was too wide, too bare. The walls were smooth slate, no drapes, no sigils, no art. Just a raised platform near the far end and rows of shadowed alcoves flanking the chamber like the mouths of a cave.

And in the center of that raised platform stood not the Consort.

But the Emperor.

Damian Lyon.