Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 161 - 156: Lingering scent (2)

Chapter 161: Chapter 156: Lingering scent (2)

Damian turned from the dying firelight and made his way into the bath chamber, the hush of the room folding around him like velvet. The air was thick with clean steam now, no trace of floral undertones, no cloying sweetness. Just the scent of warmth and slate.

He stripped methodically. Undid each button without pause. Peeled off the last of his clothing with quick, controlled hands. His robe, his undershirt, trousers, even his socks, all of it dropped into the burn pile beside the door of the bathroom.

He had held himself in check while Gabriel was present. He had kept the worst of his rage hidden behind measured words and sharp glances. Gabriel did not deserve his temper, not the sharp taste or the weight. Not after everything.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

He sank into the bath like a man bracing for war.

The heat scalded his skin, but he didn’t flinch. He welcomed it. Reached for the coarse cloth and began to scrub, not with grace, but with the kind of pressure that could erase memory if it tried hard enough.

He would never allow this to happen again.

’That wrench will pay for this.’ His thoughts carved the words into the still air. Not shouted, not snarled, etched. As final and deliberate as law.

Not because she’d worn something precious.

Not even because it had unsettled him.

But because it had clung to Gabriel.

That single offense had crossed a line Damian had no idea he would draw until he smelled it on someone else’s ambition and saw it mark what was his.

She had done it to draw blood in the court, to humiliate Gabriel and test the boundaries of her usefulness.

Damian rinsed the cloth and set it aside, hands clean now but clenched underwater. His eyes burned, not with rage, but with purpose. Every drop of heat around him seemed to anchor that thought deeper.

When he finally rose from the bath, the steam followed him like a mantle.

Two attendants waited silently with towels, one holding one out and one already kneeling to prepare the floor.

He stepped onto the stone without a word, and they moved in unison, drying and folding.

The attendants didn’t speak. He had established a level of polite familiarity with his personal servers, but this time they were aware that beneath their master’s skin was boiling cold rage.

They pitied the stupid princess for provoking him.

A fresh set of clothes had been laid out in the outer chamber: deep navy and onyx black, trimmed in understated imperial embroidery—power made quiet. Clean. Fragrance-free.

One of the attendants helped him into the tailored shirt, fastening the collar with deft fingers, avoiding eye contact. The other unfolded the outer coat and stepped back once it was smoothed over Damian’s shoulders.

They didn’t ask if he wanted the full formal set. They already knew.

Another offered the obsidian ring, thin, sharp-edged, and only ceremonial in theory, while the imperial ring remained comfortably on his right hand, warm against his skin. That one never left. It had been enchanted to be weightless and unnoticeable. The kind of mark was meant not for decoration but for permanence.

Gloves, dark and fitted, waited on the silver tray beside a new signet. The tray itself had been polished again, though it didn’t need it.

Everything Damian wore now was chosen to erase any trace of earlier.

He tugged the gloves on without instruction, flexed his fingers once to settle the leather into place. His hair had dried, falling neatly into place without effort.

The attendants waited in silence, perfectly still.

Damian took a breath. Not to calm himself, but to center the final piece of who he was when he stepped beyond this room.

Then he turned toward the door.

In the other room, Gabriel was already comfortably seated near the fire. He was dressed in a white robe that was barely fastened at the waist, his right foot resting lazily on his left knee, holding a large cup between his hands. He wasn’t drinking, just staring into the flames, gaze distant, thoughtful. Like he was dreaming with his eyes open.

Damian leaned against the doorframe, his shoulder catching the warm wood. A lazy smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

He would rather sit on the sofa and watch Gabriel in silence than deal with political obligations. It wasn’t even a decision; it was instinct. The urge to stay, to let the empire wait.

His gaze dropped.

The robe had slipped slightly, carelessly. Gabriel’s chest was exposed, pale and warm in the firelight, the shadows brushing against skin that still held a faint flush from the bath. His nipples were pink, barely covered.

’This man will be the end of me,’ Damian thought with a slow breath. Not frustrated. Not overwhelmed.

Just aware.

Completely, dangerously aware of what he had and how close it always felt to slipping out of reach whenever he walked away.

"It appears Edward has something on his conscience for offering hot chocolate," Damian murmured, the faintest curl to his voice as the scent of it reached him—rich, warm, indulgent.

The aroma filled the room like a comfort he hadn’t asked for.

Gabriel didn’t look up right away. He swirled the liquid in his cup with lazy circles, the firelight catching along the rim. "He said it was meant to soothe strained temperaments."

Damian’s brow lifted. "Yours?"

Gabriel’s lips twitched. "Yours."

"Treasonous."

"Possibly," Gabriel agreed, nonchalant. "But well-timed. Soon enough I will be his favorite."

Damian paused, his half-gloved hand resting over his forearm; he exhaled through his nose and pushed off the doorframe.

He crossed the room without urgency, the soft press of his boots muffled against the carpet. Gabriel didn’t move, just tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the approach but not looking up. As if he knew exactly what Damian would do.

And he was right.

Damian leaned down beside the sofa, his movements smooth, unhurried. deliberately taking his time. He pressed a kiss to Gabriel’s hair, just behind his ear, where it was still slightly damp, the scent of soap still clinging faintly beneath the fire’s warmth.

"I have to go," he murmured, lips brushing against skin.

"Won’t you let me deal with Anya?" Gabriel asked, his tone light, his expression the picture of innocence, except for the gleam behind his eyes.

Damian stilled, just briefly.

"Not this time," he said, low and certain, the words brushing close to the curve of Gabriel’s jaw. "You’ve done enough for one evening."

Gabriel huffed a breath of amusement, not quite a laugh. "How responsible of you."

"If I let you handle it," Damian went on, straightening, "there might not be enough left of her to make a statement."

"That’s a risk I’m willing to take."

Damian gave him a long look, his hand brushing against Gabriel’s shoulder once, light and familiar, before turning away.

"I’m not."