Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 368 - 362: Lord Imbecile and court romance

The noble chuckled.

Wrong move.

"Oh no, no, not at all!" he said quickly, sweat forming beneath the thick embroidery of his collar. "Of course not. I merely meant, well, everyone’s wondering what your next move will be, Your Grace. The Empire’s grateful, naturally, for the heir. There’s talk, of course. You might retire from court life after the birth. Seek something... quieter. Something more suited to an omega of your grace. There are alphas more gentle, less burdened by war and ambition, should you wish for a... simpler life."

Gabriel blinked, raised his gaze to Damian’s face and laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. Not the smooth, dismissive sound he gave diplomats when they tried to outmaneuver him with outdated protocol. No. This was a short, sharp, genuinely amused sound that rang a little too clearly in the crystal-washed air of the ballroom.

The noble flinched.

Damian didn’t move.

There was no shift in his golden eyes, no flicker of visible emotion. Just that stillness—the kind born from command, forged on battlefields and in council rooms thick with smoke and blood. The kind of stillness that made the guards straighten, as if anticipating violence.

Gabriel rested a hand on his stomach, amusement still humming at the edge of his breath. "A simpler life," he echoed. "With another alpha."

"I meant no disrespect," the noble rushed, panic bleeding through his tone. "Only that—your Grace deserves comfort. Peace. Freedom to—"

"To be passed around like a title deed?" Gabriel cut in smoothly, voice soft but serrated. "To be matched with someone who meets the expectations of a role I already surpassed?"

The noble froze.

And Damian, finally, took a single step forward.

—

On the other side of the room, the group stilled, with Max and Christian losing their easygoing air and the others bracing for blood.

Max straightened in his seat, his smile gone in an instant. "Oh no."

Christian leaned forward, eyes narrowing, one hand already halfway to his coat pocket like he might need to intervene, not with words, but with plausible deniability. "Who the hell let Lord Imbecile approach them without a handler?"

Alexandra reached for her fan, the movement elegant but defensive, flicking it open like a shield. "If he says one more word, it’s going to turn into a state funeral."

Rafael didn’t speak, just gripped his glass a little tighter. Irina, oblivious to the depths of the danger but sensing the sudden drop in temperature, stepped closer to Alexandra without even realizing.

Only Alexander, still posted like a statue near the wall, moved his head enough to glance toward the disturbance. He didn’t reach for his blade, but his hand did drop to his side, the barest shift of his fingers like the prelude to thunder.

—

The blue-white ether from the chandeliers flared like lightning behind glass, violent, beautiful, and far too alive to be mere decoration. Conversations faltered. Glasses paused halfway to lips. Musicians stilled their hands against strings. The entire ballroom seemed to breathe in at once.

The guards shifted, not to seize, not yet, but to ensure that every possible exit the man might take was already too far behind him.

The noble, to his credit, tried to salvage what was left of his future.

"My Emperor, I only meant—"

Damian didn’t raise his voice. His tone was cold, exact. Icy enough to frost the inside of glass.

"Take him out."

Gasps rose. Subtle. Stifled. The kind court etiquette turned into sharp little silences.

"Today is a celebration of life," Damian continued, standing now, towering, golden eyes glowing like twin suns. "Execute him after the celebration ends."

The guards moved, and this time, they did seize.

The noble’s voice cracked into the silence, begging now, but quietly, because even desperation had a protocol in this palace. The guests looked away, the same way one looks away from a dying animal. Some out of shame. Some in fear. Some because they knew better than to appear moved.

Damian turned to Gabriel and placed his hand at the small of his back. "Now, let’s see what my brothers are up to."

Damian’s hand didn’t waver as it rested against Gabriel’s spine—a quiet claim, warm and grounding, the only gentleness left in a ballroom stunned into obedience.

Gabriel, of course, wasn’t rattled. He leaned into the touch like it was nothing more than habit, even as his lips curled upward with unbothered amusement. "You’re getting soft," he murmured, eyes still following the guards dragging the noble from the room. "Ten years ago, you’d have done it on the spot."

Damian hummed. "Ten years ago, I didn’t have a mate who looked that good while pregnant. I’m evolving."

"Terrifying."

The laughter between them was light, wrong, perhaps, in the echo of what had just happened, but also the exact right kind of wrong. The kind that said this is our Empire, and you don’t get to tell us what suits it.

Gabriel arched a brow as they turned away from the stunned crowd. "Your brothers?"

Damian’s smile was faint but razor-edged, the kind that promised both affection and consequences. "If Astana doesn’t appear in the next five minutes," he said, tone perfectly measured, "Christian will retrieve him from the Imperial Office himself."

Gabriel gave him a long-suffering look. "Dragging a beta through five ballrooms in full regalia. Scandalous."

"Only if Astana resists."

Gabriel’s lips twitched. "He will. Just not in public."

"Then we’ll provide an audience."

From behind them, the rustle of cautious movement resumed—the court pretending, poorly, that nothing had happened. That no one had just been sentenced in silence. That the Empire hadn’t shown its spine and smiled while doing it.

Gabriel didn’t look back. He threaded his arm through Damian’s and walked forward like he owned every inch of marble they touched. Because he did.

And Damian, ever the conqueror, let him lead.

—

They reached the group with court-curated grace, the kind that didn’t need to be taught, only enforced. The air around them shifted again, not just because of who they were but because of what had just happened. Even without looking back, the others knew that whatever passed for mercy tonight had already been used up.

Max stood first, bowing with a touch more precision than usual. Alexandra followed, Irina hesitating half a second before she gave a curtsy so perfect it bordered on rebellion.

Rafael inclined his head, calm and composed. Alexander didn’t move from his post at the edge, but his eyes followed every step.

Gabriel didn’t slow. "Everyone’s behaving."

"For now," Damian muttered, releasing Gabriel’s arm only once the courtesies had been satisfied. "Which means something’s about to go wrong."

As if summoned by the insult, Astana appeared from the ballroom’s eastern entrance with the dignified stride of a man who had rehearsed decorum to survive it. His coat was still buttoned to perfection. His schedule tablet was in one hand, and he paused only long enough to bow before launching into an update. freёweɓnovel_com

"Your Majesty. Your Grace," he began, voice smooth and practiced. "You have one more scheduled round of greetings. After that, the floor will open for general celebration. No further diplomatic obligations unless something urgent arises."

Gabriel was already exhaling in relief. "I might survive this evening after all."

Astana gave a tight nod. "I’ll be coordinating with the floor stewards. The musicians are ready for the next transition."

"Thank you, Astana," Damian said with genuine warmth, though the tired glint in his eyes hadn’t quite left. "We’ll finish the formalities shortly."

But before Astana could step back, Christian, still lounging like he wasn’t one politically motivated breath away from violence, straightened and extended his hand.

"Irina," he said casually, eyes locked on her with the kind of easy mischief that always came with consequences, "would you do me the honor of the next dance?"

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