Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 321 - 316: If you want it

Gabriel narrowed his eyes with the kind of restrained composure reserved for nobility forced into family dinners. "So just to be clear, I’m now married and treason-adjacent, and somehow, the staff still thinks I’m the one who needs calming tea."

"You’re not married yet," Edward snapped, rearranging silverware with the kind of aggressive precision that suggested he was seconds away from stabbing someone with the salad fork. "Because until I see a formal procession, an officiant, three state witnesses, and at least one acceptable rehearsal, no legal union will be recognized. Not under this roof."

Damian, who had leaned back again with the serenity of a man who had long since accepted his role as the architect of chaos, raised a single brow. "I am the roof."

"You are the reason I haven’t retired," Edward replied, already reaching into the side pocket of his coat and pulling out a notepad—thick, leather-bound, and, judging by the weight of the sigh he gave, prepared weeks ago for this exact confrontation.

Gabriel watched him with an expression bordering on respect and horror. "Do you carry that everywhere?"

"I carry it because he," Edward gestured broadly at Damian, "cannot be trusted to inform anyone of his decisions before making them—and you, Your Grace, are not exactly known for timely communication unless scandal or starvation is involved."

Gabriel sniffed. "I’m selective."

"You’re a nightmare."

"Still marrying into the crown, though."

Edward did not flinch, but Gabriel could see the twitch at his left eye, subtle and small—like a tiny fault line in a dignified mountain that had stood through three dynasties and absolutely refused to crumble for love or lust or sheer stupidity.

"The engagement ceremony was scheduled for two weeks from now," Edward said, each word enunciated with the careful precision of a man actively resisting the urge to throw the soup tureen. "Everything is settled. The guest list, the invitations, the flower arrangements, the reinforced perimeter in case your family decides to attend—again—uninvited. And no, neither of you will escape from this. Engagement first. Then marriage. Then the coronation of the new Empress."

Damian opened his mouth.

Edward raised a hand—not a dramatic gesture, but a lethal one, sharp and clean, the kind that could stop a battlefield and, apparently, an emperor. "And if either of you so much as suggest altering that order," he said, voice like a closing vault door, "I will ask Crista to take this madness over."

The room went still.

Even the soup stopped steaming.

Gabriel paled slightly. "You wouldn’t."

Edward looked him dead in the eye. "She has three approved dresses, seven approved guest speeches, and has already assigned your ring bearer. The only reason she hasn’t personally come to the palace is because I promised her you would behave."

"But I have a ring already," Gabriel said quietly, almost like an afterthought—almost like he wasn’t about to upend whatever threadbare calm Edward had left.

There was a pause. A long one. The kind of pause that could measure earthquakes.

Damian—traitor that he was—picked up his glass again and studied the contents like it had never betrayed him.

Edward blinked once. "You have a what?"

Gabriel, who by now should’ve known better but had already committed to the spiral, gestured vaguely in the direction of his left hand, as if that would soften the blow. "Damian asked me. A few days ago. Privately. You were... busy with his descent into fever because of his ether channels burning."

The silence that followed was not peaceful.

It was the kind of silence that fell before a storm—precise, clinical, and just loud enough to hear the sound of Edward’s dignity cracking like thin ice under ceremonial boots.

Gabriel lowered his hand, slowly, until it rested palm-down on the edge of the table. The ring caught the firelight and held it—gold and cruelly beautiful, etched with symbols that no one else had the right to wear yet.

Edward didn’t speak.

Not immediately.

His eyes remained fixed on the ring like it had committed a capital offense, like it had personally rewritten imperial protocol with glittering malice and a hint of smug romance.

Then, very quietly, too quietly, he said, "You will have the Engagement."

And with that, he turned on his heel, coat flaring behind him like divine wrath wrapped in brocade, and exited the room with the slow, controlled steps of a man holding his last shred of composure together with pure hatred for improvisation.

The door clicked shut.

Somewhere in the distance, muffled by layers of silk wallpaper and imperial insulation, a long, strangled scream could be heard—one that carried the weight of three broken spreadsheets and seven ruined flower arrangements.

Gabriel stared at the door.

Then at Damian.

Then down at his hand.

"That was dramatic," Gabriel said, sighing through his teeth, "but unfortunately... he’s right."

The ring caught the light again—mocking him, probably. Elegant, imperial, perfectly tailored to his finger like it had always known where it belonged.

Damian didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him with the kind of stillness that made everything else feel louder—Edward’s distant scream, the soft clink of cooling silver, the weight of a promise sealed too early and far too honestly.

The kind of stillness that, coming from Damian, meant the leash was still on—barely.

"You take the final decision," he said at last, voice low and even, but sharpened at the edges like the words had been dragged across iron. "But for the record, I would much prefer to skip it."

Gabriel lifted his head, surprised by the lack of argument, the simplicity of it.

Damian met his eyes without hesitation. "I’ve already knelt. I’ve already bled. You’ve already said yes. The rest is noise."

There was no anger in his tone, but something colder had settled beneath it. A line drawn. A warning.

"I’ve tolerated the nobles," Damian continued, calm but no longer soft, "I’ve let them parade their daughters, their alliances, their quiet threats, their not-so-quiet opinions about your place at my side. I’ve listened while they speculated about your past, about your role, about how long you’d last before I got tired of you."

His gaze darkened.

"And I’m done."

Gabriel was still now. Not from fear, but from the sudden, sharp certainty that Damian was not speaking as a lover or an Emperor. He was speaking as both. And neither would bend.

"I don’t need their approval to crown you," Damian said. "I don’t need a formal engagement ceremony to make you mine. But if you want it I’ll stand beside you for every second of it. I’ll hold your hand through it, and I’ll let them watch me worship you until they understand they’re not invited to this marriage. Only witnesses to it."