Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL) Chapter 369 - 363: Prince Christian’s move

"Irina," Christian said smoothly, his voice the perfect blend of charm and provocation, "would you do the honor of the next dance?"

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, Irina glanced sideways, just once, toward her brother. Astana was pretending not to listen, scrolling through a list of nas on his tablet like he hadn’t heard the most transparent bait dropped three feet away.

Irina smiled.

Not innocent. Not naïve. The kind of smile that said, I know exactly what I’m doing, and I’m going to enjoy this.

"Oh, I would love to," she said sweetly. "But wouldn’t it be rude to ignore my brother? He hasn’t danced with anyone tonight. Not even his clipboard."

Christian’s eyes glead. "I assud he’d married that thing by now."

"I considered staging an intervention," she replied, offering her hand like it was a test, "but we’re saving that for his birthday."

Christian took it, just as rehearsed, because this wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-mont court flirtation. This was war.

And Astana? Astana finally looked up, expression still blank, but his fingers stilled mid-scroll.

Gabriel, standing a few steps away with Damian, muttered, "Your brother’s playing with fire."

Damian didn’t look. "He thinks he’s the fire."

"He’s not."

"No."

Christian led Irina toward the dance floor with effortless grace, but his silver eyes flicked back just once, toward Astana.

Astana’s jaw ticked. Just once.

Irina, mid-spin, whispered just loud enough for Christian to hear, "Do you think he’s jealous yet?"

Christian’s grip tightened, not too much, just enough for the ssage to carry. "He’s trying not to be."

"Good," she said, smiling like a general after the first volley. "Let’s make it worse."

Irina’s pale dress swirled with each turn, the fabric trailing like smoke over polished marble. Her blonde hair caught the light, fluttering against her cheeks, and her eyes, sharp, glinting blue, never left Christian’s. Every step was practiced elegance, the kind that made people stare. But the way she leaned in just slightly, the way her laughter rang just a little too freely? That was for an audience of one.

The nobles, emboldened by the shift in tension, from execution to flirtation, whispered behind fans and gilded cuffs. So already speculated about a courtship between the Emperor’s brother and the youngest daughter of House Blake. After all, hadn’t she curtsied beside the Empress? And didn’t she look right next to power?

Alexander didn’t move.

From his post near the western pillar, he stood like a blade sheathed in decorum. Unmoving, unreadable. But his eyes tracked Irina’s every spin.

And he heard them.

Christian, with his easy charm, whispering, "You’re a nace."

Irina smiled up at him like butter wouldn’t lt on her tongue. "I’m delightful. He’s the one brooding."

Alexander’s lip twitched.

Just faintly. A smirk barely there.

He didn’t need to look at Astana to know the beta had gone still. Didn’t need to see the way his grip on the tablet had tightened or the warning in his narrowed eyes. Alexander had heard that kind of silence before. It ca before declarations. Or duels.

He let his smirk settle deeper and exhaled once through his nose.

Interesting. Very interesting.

He watched as Christian spun Irina one last ti, the hem of her gown brushing the floor like a whisper, and thought, not without amusent, that maybe court life wasn’t as dull as he rembered.

—

The dance ended in a flourish of silk and light laughter. Irina’s curtsy was crisp and playful, dipped just low enough to imply the mont had been more than a simple dance. Christian’s bow matched it, graceful, a touch theatrical, but with an undercurrent of intent that only the foolish would miss.

Applause rose, polite and eager, nobles already turning to each other with renewed whispers, chasing rumors like scent trails. But Christian didn’t linger. He gave Irina a wink that made three dowager countesses gasp and then turned, eyes locking instantly onto his target.

Astana was standing to the side, tablet in hand, jaw tight.

He didn’t flinch when Christian approached. That would’ve ant surrender.

"I need a word," Christian said, not giving Astana a chance to argue before placing a hand on his shoulder and steering him firmly out of earshot.

"I’m working," Astana said under his breath, walking briskly but not resisting. "You know, the reason you’re allowed to show up late, unbriefed, and still look competent."

Christian’s expression was pleasant, but there was heat in it now. "You’ve had your fun."

"My fun?" Astana repeated, deadpan.

Christian stepped in front of him, blocking the hallway. "You want ."

Astana blinked. "Excuse ?"

"I’ve let you dance around this long enough." Christian’s voice was low and controlled, but it shimred with the barely restrained temper of soone who had decided on a battlefield and was tired of waiting for the first shot. "You use your rank. You use your logic. You hide behind your duties. Fine. But don’t pretend I don’t see the way you look at when you think I’m not watching."

Astana’s spine was a rod of steel. His eyes didn’t flicker. "You’re the Emperor’s brother. I have no desire to end up as a cautionary tale carved into a political archive."

Christian leaned closer. "Then tell no."

Astana didn’t.

He opened his mouth, but nothing ca out.

Christian smiled, slowly, like a man who had just taken the first city in a long campaign. "I thought so."

Astana took a step back, not because he wanted distance but because standing still any longer might have ant saying sothing irreversible.

"You’re insufferable," he muttered, turning away.

"I am, but let’s at least try it. Stop hiding behind work and give a chance before I pull the imperial favor and weaponized gossip."

Astana paused mid-step. Slowly, carefully, like a man weighing his life against the threat of sothing far more chaotic than court politics, Christian Lyon with free ti and determination.

He didn’t turn around.

"I should report you for emotional blackmail," he said flatly, though his voice had lost its usual crisp detachnt.

Christian grinned behind him. "You could. But then you’d have to explain why I’m your ergency contact, why your office slls like my cologne, and why you never correct people who think we’re already involved."

Astana finally turned, glare sharp enough to cut through silk. "Because correcting idiots is beneath ."

"And being mine wouldn’t be?"

Astana’s jaw tightened. He was losing this battle and they both knew it. "You’re going to ruin everything."

"I’m excellent at it," Christian said cheerfully, stepping into his space again, not touching but close enough to crowd. "But maybe we can ruin it together."

Astana didn’t shove him. Didn’t argue. Just sighed, deeply, like a man being dragged into a conspiracy he had written himself into line by line.

"One date," he muttered.

Christian blinked. Then grinned. "Are you asking out, Astana Blake?"

"I’m telling you to pick a night when you’re not a nace."

"Anything for you, my dear."

Astana gave him a stare so dry it could’ve scorched parchnt. "You just proved my point."

Christian didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin widened. "And you just agreed to spend ti with voluntarily. That’s legally binding in most provinces."

"I should’ve picked exile," Astana muttered, brushing past him, already regretting every second of leniency he’d ever shown the Second Prince.

"Too late," Christian called after him, following at an easy pace. "You picked ."

Astana didn’t respond; he was too dignified for that. But his ears were red. And Christian counted that as a win.