Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 347 - 341: No Blood Tonight

By the time Damian returned to their chambers, clean now, the scent of antiseptic barely clinging to his skin beneath the linen that cooled more than it comforted, Gabriel was already stepping out of the bathroom, hair still damp, the ends curling slightly at the nape of his neck. He wore one of Damian’s robes, loose, not even pretending to be fastened, as if modesty had long since stopped being a concern between them.

Damian stilled.

Not because Gabriel was barefoot and gorgeous and radiating that quiet defiance that always made the Emperor’s blood run hotter, but because something had changed.

It wasn’t the robe or the careless way Gabriel moved.

It was the soft curve at the front of his body. Barely there. Easily missed by anyone else. But Damian noticed it like a blow to the chest. The gentle swell just above the beltline, subtle, visible only in the shifting light of the chandelier overhead.

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Not at first. freewёbnoνel-com

Gabriel paused mid-step, catching the look in Damian’s eyes, one brow arching in faint challenge, already prepared for whatever stupid comment was about to come out of his mouth.

Instead, Damian crossed the space between them in two steps, silent as a blade unsheathed.

His hand rose, deliberate and slow, and pressed against that subtle curve, fingertips barely touching, reverent, like even the smallest pressure might ruin something too sacred to name.

"You’re showing," he murmured, his voice stripped bare of anything sharp.

Gabriel didn’t flinch. But something in his expression shifted, softened.

"It’s early," he said, low. "But it will only get bigger."

Damian’s hand stayed where it was, warm against the gentle swell that hadn’t been there last week.

His thumb moved in a slow, possessive arc across Gabriel’s skin, as if he were grounding himself in reality, anchoring not just to the slight swell beneath his palm, but to everything that had nearly slipped away hours earlier.

"Good," he said finally, voice roughened by something he didn’t bother hiding. "Let them see it. Let them know exactly who you belong to."

Gabriel placed his hand over Damian’s forehead and pushed it gently to the side, not forcefully but undeniably done with him.

"You’re cocky and tired," he said, the edge in his voice softened by exhaustion and something dangerously close to affection. "Let’s get you to bed before you get any ideas."

Damian didn’t move at first. Just looked at him. Like he couldn’t decide whether to argue or kiss him again. Then, slowly, with that frustrating grace of someone who’d been born a ruler, he let himself be guided.

Gabriel’s bathrobe remained untied, the soft fabric parting around his stomach, and Damian’s gaze drifted back there, only for a second.

"Don’t look at me like that," Gabriel said under his breath.

"Like what?" Damian murmured, already knowing.

"Like I’m yours just because I’m carrying your child."

"You’re mine," Damian said, letting himself sink down onto the bed, voice low and worn but certain in that way only he could manage, "because you chose me. Our child is a gift."

Gabriel didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, one hand still on the edge of the sheet, the other resting absently against his stomach as if grounding himself in the quiet of the room and in those words. Words that weren’t poetic or rehearsed, but real in the only way that mattered.

Then, slowly, he let the breath he’d been holding slip out through his nose.

"You’re getting sentimental," he murmured, walking around the bed and drawing the other side of the sheet up, careful not to jostle Damian too much as he settled beside him. "I blame the drugs."

Damian turned his head toward him, the barest curve tugging at his lips. "You love it."

Gabriel rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away when Damian’s hand found his again under the blanket.

"I love that you’re alive," he said simply, his voice quieter now. "And that you’re not pretending you aren’t made of blood and bone like the rest of us."

Gabriel waited until Damian’s breath had evened out, shallow and steady in the unmistakable rhythm of sleep. He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, watching the rise and fall of his mate’s chest, proof that he was still breathing, still healing, still here.

Then, with the care of someone who knew exactly how to move around a sleeping predator, he eased his hand from Damian’s and rose.

The night air was cool against his skin as he crossed to the changing room, bare feet silent on the marble. He didn’t bother with full formality, just a pair of cream trousers that sat soft and clean against his hips and a dark blue shirt he left open at the collar, sleeves rolled once at the cuffs.

The chamber was dim when he stepped back out, and Damian hadn’t stirred. Good. He’d need at least another four hours if Marin’s sedative held.

Gabriel spared him one last look before heading toward the hallway. ’No blood on my hands tonight,’ he reminded himself, while his hands itched to destroy those who touched Damian.

The corridor beyond their chambers was quiet and, at first glance, empty. But that was a lie only the untrained would believe. The shadows were there. Beneath the arches. Behind the pillars. Masked in the dull gleam of polished marble and the low, golden wash of sconces that flickered like candlelight but burned on pure ether.

More than usual tonight. Twice as many. And their rage was boiling.

He could feel it in the subtle shift of the air, in the press of eyes that didn’t follow so much as guard, each presence taut with restrained violence. If Gabriel had hesitated, if he’d paused for even a second to appear uncertain, they would have responded, ruthlessly. That’s what Damian had built them for.

And what Gabriel, now, commanded.

He didn’t slow his pace.

A nod here. A flick of his gaze there. Each signal precise. Not commands, not yet. Just acknowledgment.

They moved anyway. Soundless. Coordinated.

By the time he passed the outer seal of the west wing, four Shadows had already spread out through the lower level. Two more followed. They were hunting, even now. For accomplices. For cowards who thought they could walk free because the poison hadn’t killed.

Gabriel exhaled softly.

’No blood on my hands tonight.’

But the empire would still bleed. On command.

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