Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 163 - 158: Political marriage

Chapter 163: Chapter 158: Political marriage

Christian shook his head slowly. "So what now? We ruin her?"

"No," Damian said, his voice calm but absolute. "We redirect her."

Max gave him a sideways glance, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. "That’s a very imperial way to say exile her with accessories."

Damian didn’t respond. Not directly. He moved toward the hearth with measured ease, his steps so quiet they might have been made by thought alone. The fire cast shifting light across the dark paneling, catching on the insignia of his ring—the wolf and flame gleaming like a silent warning.

"She’ll marry into the Claymore house," he said.

Max froze.

His body didn’t register it at first. He was halfway through lifting his teacup again, hand poised mid-air, when the words actually settled.

"I beg your finest pardon?" He said, his voice razor-sharp and brittle, like glass under strain.

Damian didn’t flinch. He moved to the hearth, back half-turned to them, inspecting the flames as if the conversation were a matter of weather, not strategy.

"She’ll marry into the Claymore house," he repeated.

Max blinked once. Slowly. "My house?"

Damian didn’t clarify. He didn’t need to.

Max slowly set the teacup down, movements careful, reverent, like he was afraid it might explode, along with the rest of his sanity.

Christian turned from the window at last, sensing the shift in temperature. "Wait."

But Max was already standing, hands slightly raised like he couldn’t decide whether to throw something or himself into the fire.

"You’re joking," he said flatly. "Tell me you’re joking. Look me in the eyes and tell me this is one of your deranged little social experiments."

Damian turned slowly. His golden gaze met Max’s without flinching.

"She needs to be contained. Respected, but neutralized. A marriage offers both. We can’t throw away all the work put into the agreement with the Paisian Kingdom just because of her stupidity."

Max stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

"I am not," he said, voice rising, "some walking solution to your problems, Damian. You don’t get to toss volatile women into my wing and call it diplomacy!"

Astana coughed softly into his hand, very nearly a sigh.

"I’m beginning to think he’s taking this personally," he murmured, too low for anyone but the bookshelves to hear.

Max ignored him, storming toward the desk now, one hand gesturing wildly while the other curled into a fist at his side. "I have a mate, Damian!"

The words hung in the air like thunder.

For a second, even the fire in the hearth seemed to quiet.

Christian turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

And Damian, Damian’s expression didn’t shift. Not right away. But something behind his eyes cooled further, like water retreating under ice.

His gaze held Max’s like a pressure point.

"Well, I know who he is," he added, almost as an afterthought. "But not because of my nice brother."

Max stiffened.

"You’ve been spying on me?" he asked, voice taut, jaw flexing. "Are you mad that I didn’t present him to you? Is this your way of getting at me? Pushing Anya on me like some twisted lesson in obedience?"

Damian didn’t flinch. He simply stood there, unmoving, composed, radiating the kind of power that didn’t need to raise its voice to be heard.

"I don’t care that you didn’t present him," he said, his voice sharp now, stripped of its earlier amusement. "I care that you kept it from me."

Max’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Christian’s gaze shifted uneasily toward the hearth. The tension between his brothers had crossed into something heavier, older, something that had nothing to do with politics or marriage arrangements.

Damian continued, quieter now. "You are my brother. My blood. You’ve stood by me since before the crown. You were there the day Hadeon ordered me killed." He stepped closer, one hand braced on the edge of the desk. "And still, when you found someone, you hid him. Like I would take him away. Like I would use him."

Max stared at him, blinking fast.

"I didn’t hide him from you," he said at last. "I hid him from the court. From them. You know what they do to mates. Especially quiet ones. Especially those who aren’t born into this madness."

"Then you should’ve trusted me to protect him," Damian snapped.

There it was, the crack beneath the control.

Max went still.

And for once, neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn’t peace; it was charged, brittle, full of things neither of them would say while the fire still glowed behind their eyes.

Then Damian spoke, his voice quieter but no less commanding.

"Take responsibility and present him."

Max’s gaze flicked up.

"You have a mate. Good. Then stop hiding him like a state secret. Let the court know you’re bound. Let me know you’re bound. Because if I have to swat away one more marriage proposal with a polite smile while my cousin skitters around behind curtains—"

"I don’t skitter—" Max started, but Damian didn’t stop.

"—I will start choosing your social schedule for you. In ink."

Max sank back into his chair, one hand rubbing at his temple. "This is revenge. Admit it."

"Anya will marry Elliot," Damian said flatly. "Not you. Although you were too caught up in your tantrum to realize, I never even implied it would be you."

Max muttered something unspeakable into his hands. Christian coughed to hide a laugh.

"I walked into that," Max groaned. "With banners."

"You carried the banners," Damian said, returning behind the desk. "And a fanfare."

Astana, who had remained still through the emotional artillery, adjusted his cuff with delicate timing. "Shall I summon the convoy now?"

Damian shook his head once, his gaze already turning distant, calculation returning to his spine like a blade sliding back into its sheath.

"No. Tomorrow."

Astana inclined his head. "Time?"

"Second bell. Imperial office. Make sure the princess is present."

A pause.

"And Elliot," Damian added. "George, too. I want him watching. And the rest of the Paisian convoy, no excuses. Not one empty chair."

"As you wish, Your Majesty." Astana’s bow was precise, already halfway out the door to set the plan in motion.

Max glanced at Christian, then at Damian. "You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you?"

"I don’t enjoy anything," Damian said calmly, retrieving a report from the desk.

Christian snorted.

Max narrowed his eyes. "You’re going to dress Gabriel for the meeting, aren’t you?"

Damian didn’t look up. "No."

Pause.

"Edward will."

Max buried his face in his hands again.

Christian laughed.

And the fire crackled softly, a witness to all things cruel, calculated, and crowned.