CHAPTER 187: CHAPTER 182: UNTIL DINNER (4)

Damian held Gabriel’s hand until the last second. He lingered longer than necessary, brushing his thumb again over Gabriel’s pulse—steady, warm, and entirely his.

Only when he was sure Gabriel’s shoulders had fully relaxed into the chair again, and the firelight had softened the edges of the room into something domestic, did he pull away.

"Don’t fall asleep at the desk," he murmured, glancing at the familiar sprawl of Gabriel’s limbs across his half of the workspace. "Edward will file a report."

"He’ll get over it," Gabriel called lazily after him, already leaning to steal another one of Damian’s pens.

Damian exhaled a slow breath as he stepped out of the study, shutting the door with deliberate quiet behind him.

The shift hit immediately.

The moment he crossed into the corridor, the warmth dimmed. His expression hardened, and his posture straightened. The storm he’d tucked behind calm words and affectionate banter clawed at the edges of his spine.

The inspection had been a disaster.

Three commanding officers had stood in front of him this morning with excuses so poorly constructed, it insulted his intelligence. One battalion had failed a basic shield reinforcement drill. Another, God help them, was unable to coordinate a joint strike formation. And the third? Too arrogant to admit they hadn’t read the most recent strategic update. Damian had wanted to remove all three men from their posts before breakfast.

He hadn’t, of course. There were protocols. Political factions. Advisors who begged him to be merciful for the sake of morale.

But the urge to burn the whole officers’ hall to the ground had been real.

Only Gabriel had managed to crack the mood—and even then, only because he’d sat there in Damian’s study, legs stretched, collar open, and attitude sharp as ever, acting like the crown belonged to him. Which, in some ways, it did.

The thought drew the ghost of a smirk to Damian’s lips.

But he needed more than clever hands and a warm fire to fix the Empire’s slow decay. And dinner—tonight—was his line in the sand. Three more hours.

By the time he reached his private chambers, he was already shrugging off the weight of the day like an unwanted second coat. The scent of training grounds, iron and sweat, and cracked leather clung to his skin. His boots tracked the dried remnants of a failed command across the marble tiles.

He stripped down in a series of practiced movements, starting with shirt, then belt, and finally his pants. The bruises across his knuckles from sparring with his own men still ached. He welcomed the sting. At least it made sense.

Inside the bathing chamber, the water was already drawn.

Edward’s doing, no doubt. Or someone trained by him. The temperature was perfect. A faint wisp of ether swirled above the surface, glowing gently in dim light.

Damian stepped in and let himself submerge to the neck. The heat sank deep into his bones, drawing the tension out by force. He closed his eyes.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then: Gabriel’s voice in his mind—sharp, amused, all teeth and cleverness. "Must be nice to be a genius in everything you do."

Damian huffed, a quiet breath through his nose. "It is."

He let himself soak until the muscles along his shoulders loosened. Then, with methodical calm, he scrubbed away the remnants of the field. The mud. The blood. The failure.

When he finally emerged, he was dressed in black slacks, a soft dark shirt open at the throat, a simple gold chain at his collarbone and a watch to match it.

He stood for a moment in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with slow precision. His dried hair was brushed back; he gave up on using cologne after Anya’s stunt. He never really liked to wear it, but Edward insisted.

"Edward."

A soft rustle at the door was the only warning before Edward materialized, as if summoned from the ether itself.

"Your Majesty," he said, his voice calm and composed as ever, though his eyes subtly flicked over Damian’s attire with critical precision.

Damian didn’t look away from the mirror. He adjusted the fall of his cuff again, this time with less care and more irritation. "No cologne. I won’t wear it."

Edward inclined his head, folding his hands neatly behind his back. "Of course, Your Majesty. I already removed the tray."

"Thank you. Tomorrow, call General Halbrecht back to the Capital. I need someone capable to take over the south garrison before I erase it."

Edward didn’t so much as blink. "I’ll prepare the summons tonight."

Damian’s jaw tightened slightly as he smoothed the edge of his sleeve once more, then let his hands fall to his sides. The mirror caught the glint of the gold chain at his throat, creating a clean, elegant line against the dark fabric. Simple, but final. He wasn’t dressing for statecraft. Not tonight.

"I want him in the city within three days," Damian added. "No delays. No excuses."

"Then I’ll arrange for a royal escort," Edward replied without hesitation. "If Halbrecht is hesitant, I’ll remind him that hesitation tends to disqualify candidates for imperial favor."

Damian exhaled, a long breath through his nose. Controlled. Still riding the razor-edge of the day’s fury, but quieter now.

"Anything else, Your Majesty?" Edward asked. His tone was perfectly even, but Damian could see the calculation flickering behind his gaze—he was bracing for whatever came next.

Damian turned from the mirror, adjusting the cuff of his other sleeve with a slow, deliberate tug. "Yes. Clear the guest wings after dinner. I don’t want anyone wandering near Gabriel’s rooms or mine. If there are deliveries, they can wait. If anyone insists, remind them that I’ve sanctioned military exile for less."

Edward gave the faintest nod. "Already in motion. The staff rotation was discreetly shifted earlier this afternoon. The north corridor will be secured, and the household is aware that no one enters without your express order."

Finally, Damian looked at him directly.

"Tonight is mine," he said quietly. "No interruptions."

"Understood," Edward said, and for once, the formality in his voice gave way to something fainter, something like approval. "Enjoy your evening, Your Majesty."

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