Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 153 - 148: Mother in law (2)

Chapter 153: Chapter 148: Mother in law (2)

Crista motioned to the chair opposite her. "Please, sit. The coffee’s real, and I had Edward promise not to water it down."

Gabriel slid into the seat without hesitation, eyeing the dark roast with some appreciation. "So it’s true, you’re the reasonable one."

"Only when I’ve had breakfast," Crista replied with a smile, pouring herself a cup. "Though even I have my limits. I married Hadeon, after all."

Gabriel smirked. "Bold choice."

"Tragic lapse," she corrected brightly. "But I was young, he had shoulders, and the rest is history, most of it messy."

That earned a quiet laugh from Gabriel, who lifted the coffee to his lips and took a long sip. "So. You know who I am."

Crista stirred in cream, unbothered. "I do. Or, at least, I know what the archives and a few sharp tongues have said about you. The man behind the curtain. The one who handed Damian the match and told him where the oil was stored."

Gabriel leaned back slightly, the heat of the cup warming his hands. "Sounds dramatic, like Edward’s hate for my need of caffeine. That man should work a month on an ether site and then talk."

Crista let out a delighted laugh, genuine and bright. "Oh, that man would last two days. He complains if the floors aren’t the exact shade of polished pearl. Imagine him in mud."

Gabriel chuckled. "He’d declare war on the dirt."

"And write a report about it," Crista added, eyes twinkling. "With footnotes. Possibly illustrated."

They exchanged a look, one of those rare, unspoken moments when the tension eased and something easier settled between them.

"I do like him, though," Gabriel admitted. "He’s loyal. Sharp. Not afraid to speak his mind. But, God, he would kill me until the coronation; I feel it in my bones."

Crista took another sip of her coffee, eyes dancing above the rim of her cup. "Yes, well, that’s part of Edward’s charm. He corrects affection with discipline. And he’s been waiting years for someone to bully who won’t cry into the velvet drapes."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "I don’t cry."

Crista hummed. "No, I imagine you curse, slam doors, and possibly break very expensive things. But tears? No. Too efficient for that."

"Now give me some ideas. Until now, I had resumed cursing, but he is determined to take even that away from me."

Crista gave him a long, theatrical look over the rim of her cup. "Oh, darling, if he’s trying to civilize you, you must be getting under his skin."

Gabriel grinned, relaxed now in her company. "That or he’s planning to auction me off to the palace decorators."

"Unlikely," she said, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "The decorators are terrified of you. One of them cried just because you looked at the drapes too long."

"I was trying to understand why they were shimmering," Gabriel said flatly.

"Ah," Crista nodded, ever sympathetic. "That was Hadeon’s choice. He thinks anything matte looks poor. And anything too subtle is ’unworthy of the imperial legacy’."

Gabriel gave a dry laugh. "Remind me again why you married him?"

"I’ve been asking myself that for forty years," she sighed dramatically. "Though in fairness, it was a beautiful wedding. Shame about the man."

Gabriel smiled into his cup, crossing his legs under the table. "You’re not like I expected."

Crista tilted her head. "Older? Softer? Slightly unhinged?"

"Wittier," he replied. "Smarter than the court gives you credit for." He was honest; he had heard rumors about the Empress Dowager and her husband, the majority of which saw her as a beautiful woman who was nothing more. They were mistaken.

"Oh, they know," she said cheerfully. "They just pretend not to. It helps their egos sleep at night."

Gabriel leaned forward, voice conspiratorial. "So if I can’t swear, and I can’t scowl at everyone openly, what can I do to stay sane until this coronation?"

Crista lit up with delight, as if he’d asked her to plan a wedding. "Gossip," she said, as if it were obvious. "Smile serenely. Sip tea like you’re bored by bloodlines. Drop tiny, elegant bombs of truth into conversations and then walk away before the echo lands."

Gabriel blinked. "That’s your survival strategy?"

She beamed. "It’s worked for decades. And it’s far more satisfying than cursing. You’ll see."

He gave her a long, thoughtful look. "That’s diabolical."

Crista winked. "It’s also how I survived Hadeon, raised Damian, and kept my orchids alive. Now, if you really want to amuse yourself, try telling the Council that you prefer plain robes."

Gabriel choked on a laugh. "They’d riot."

"They’d panic," she corrected. "Half of them already suspect you’re a radical. The other half thinks you’re Damian’s pet rebel. It’s perfect."

He leaned back with a smirk, now thoroughly entertained. "I see why Damian respects you."

"Oh, he doesn’t," she said breezily. "He fears me. That’s far more useful."

Their laughter echoed briefly through the greenhouse, brushing against the leaves and citrus-sweet air.

They sat comfortably in the quiet warmth of the greenhouse, the kind of silence that didn’t beg to be filled. Outside, a few soft thumps hinted at citrus falling from the trees above.

"I’m not here to interrogate you," Crista said at last. "If anything, I was hoping you’d let me help. Just a little."

Gabriel tilted his head, curious now. "Why?"

"Because I like you," she said plainly. "You don’t beg. You don’t fawn. You speak clearly, and when you joke, it doesn’t sound like a performance. That’s rare in this palace."

"And you’re tired of your family."

Crista let out an elegant groan, her head tipping back just enough to signal melodrama. "Exhausted."

Gabriel smiled, leaning back on his chair. "That bad?"

"Christian still believes charm can solve diplomacy, Max pretends he is not emotionally invested in anything, and Damian—well." She gave him a meaningful look. "You know what it is like to live with a man who uses silence more effectively than most generals do swords."

Gabriel didn’t disagree. "And the youngest?"

Crista’s expression softened, something fond brushing past the humor. "Sofia. Seventeen and already bored of everyone. She’s quiet, but not shy. Always listening. Always watching. Witty as a whip when she decides to speak. The tutors adore her until they realize she’s correcting them."

"Sounds like a younger Damian," Gabriel said, his grin returning.

"Thank God, she isn’t. Nobody has lost a limb as a result of her rage up to now."

They shared a pause, the kind that felt oddly like a shared joke between strangers who weren’t quite strangers anymore.

"I like you, Gabriel," Crista said suddenly. "You don’t need help, but I’d like to help anyway. You’re clever. You’ll survive court just fine, but there’s no shame in having someone smooth the path before you, even if you could tear it apart on your own."

Gabriel looked down at his coffee for a moment, then back up at her. "And what do you get out of it?"

Her smile was wide now, almost conspiratorial. "A break from all the other Lyons. That alone is worth my time. Besides..." she tilted her head. "It’s nice having someone around who speaks plainly."

He studied her for another breath, then nodded once. "All right. We’ll try being allies."

Crista raised her cup in salute. "Good. Now finish your coffee before Edward arrives with his aftermath tea. He’s very proud of it, and it tastes like regret."