Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL) Chapter 298 - 293: My License is Optional

The knock was soft—polite, but not hesitant. Gabriel didn’t move from the chair by the window. He didn’t have to. Marin had always been the kind of man who knocked more for the sake of ritual than permission.

The door opened a beat later.

"Still alive, I see," Marin said dryly as he stepped in, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. His coat was undone, sleeves rolled, and his usual scowl was softened only by the dark circles under his eyes.

Gabriel glanced at him. "Disappointed?"

"Deeply," Marin muttered. "You two keep surviving long enough to prove right, and I hate being right."

He didn’t wait for further comntary. He moved straight to the bedside, setting the satchel down with practiced ease. Damian didn’t stir.

Marin studied him for all of two seconds before pressing two fingers to the inside of his wrist. "Stable," he murmured, more to himself than to Gabriel. "But that doesn’t an he isn’t in agony."

He pulled out a syringe, uncapped it with a flick of his thumb, and slid it into the vein without ceremony. The fluid inside shimred faintly with blue, ether-muted dicine strong enough to drop a bull. Still, Marin held the plunger steady, slow.

"He’ll sleep better now," he said. "The painkillers won’t restore the channels, but they’ll stop them from seizing up every ti he exhales."

Gabriel said nothing, only watching as Damian’s fingers—still curled slightly at his side—finally relaxed.

Marin’s gaze shifted to him, sharp. "You look worse."

"Thank you," Gabriel replied, dry as dust.

"I an it. You look like soone just handed you a choice and then bled out in front of you so you wouldn’t have to make it."

Gabriel didn’t answer.

Marin sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. "You think I don’t know what he did?"

Gabriel finally looked up.

"I built the model he used," Marin said. "Helped him map the transfer paths. Warned him three separate tis that rerouting a soul-bound fragnt through a living ward nexus was basically handing the gods a scalpel and saying, ’do your worst’."

"And he still did it."

Marin gave a humorless huff. "Of course he did. He’s in love. Which, dically speaking, is the worst condition he’s ever had."

That earned a faint snort from Gabriel—tired, reluctant, but real.

"And here I thought that Alexander was the one helping; now I know why you said you would lose your license for speaking about the contract. You talked about your life."

"I can always write a new license, but you are right." He shrugged without sha.

"Cocky."

Marin’s lips twitched, a dry echo of a smile. "Occupational hazard. Cos with treating suicidal Emperors and stubborn, insomniac ogas who pretend they’re not held together with spite and leftover adrenaline."

Gabriel let his head fall back against the wing of the chair, eyes half-lidded now. "Don’t forget maternal hormones. Apparently, I have those now."

Marin gave an exaggerated shudder. "Gods help us all."

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was the rare kind that ca when two people understood each other too well to keep talking. Marin checked Damian one last ti, fiddled with the monitor on his wrist to log vitals, then made for the door.

Before he left, he paused. "Call anyti if sothing happens to you or His Majesty."

"Will do."

Marin nodded once, sharp and tired. "And Gabriel?"

Gabriel lifted a brow, still curled in the armchair, hand resting absently over his belly. "Yes?"

"If you faint again, I’m dragging you to the infirmary myself. No Shadow escorts, no Edward, just and my very questionable bedside manner."

A corner of Gabriel’s mouth tugged upward. "Noted."

"Good." Marin opened the door but didn’t step through yet. "And for what it’s worth—I’m glad it was you."

Gabriel blinked. "What?"

"Damian," Marin said simply. "He needed soone who didn’t flinch. You didn’t."

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Gabriel in the dim quiet once more.

He didn’t move for a long ti. Didn’t speak.

He just breathed, hand rising and falling gently with each inhale, gaze fixed on the sleeping form in the bed—on the man who had given everything, not because he was afraid of losing Gabriel, but because he couldn’t bear to watch him suffer one more choice he shouldn’t have had to make.

And slowly, the silence folded around them again—not heavy. Not lonely.

Just full.

—

Three days passed like a breath held too long.

Damian drifted in and out of fever—not dangerous, but deep, the kind that made even Marin mutter darkly under his breath and force fluids into him with the quiet precision of soone who refused to lose patients, emperors or not. Gabriel never left the wing. He moved between the window seat, the bed, and the occasional stroll through their shared study, reading reports aloud to fill the silence, even when he suspected Damian couldn’t quite hear him.

He hated fevers. Hated the sweat, the stillness, the way Damian’s body sotis twitched with phantom pain. He hated most of all how quiet Damian had gone—still breathing, still warm, still there, but the weight of him was wrong, thinned out like smoke where fire had once lived.

Until that morning.

Gabriel woke to the scent of broth and the rustle of clothing. He blinked blearily—and found Damian standing.

Not perfectly. Not proud. But upright.

His hair was disheveled but clean, damp ends curling slightly at his nape, the faintest sheen of steam still clinging to him like a reminder of the bath he must have barely survived. A cotton shirt, one of Edward’s more indulgent imports, hung loosely on him, sleeves rolled past the elbow, collar open. The soft fabric brushed his skin like it had been tailored just to be tolerated. Light blue pants, clean and crisp, sat low on his hips, fastened but not fully buttoned as if even now he’d gotten halfway dressed and lost interest.

His feet were bare.

And he was glaring at the bowl of broth like it was a personal enemy.

Gabriel sat up without a word, taking in the ridiculous, fragile absurdity of it. Damian Lyon, Emperor of the Realm, slayer of traitors, breaker of n—irritated at soup.

"I see your imperial fury is back," Gabriel said, his voice still rough with sleep. "Should I be worried for the spoon?"