CHAPTER 202: CHAPTER 197: EMOTIONAL WARFARE (2)

The glass doors to the winter garden opened with quiet ceremony, and the soft hum of conversation shifted.

Gabriel entered at the center of it all—flanked by Alexandra on one side, resplendent in green satin and veiled threat, and Irina on the other, her golden hair tucked neatly beneath a pearl comb, posture perfect.

Behind them came two palace attendants bearing trays, followed by a pair of Shadows who lingered just far enough to be invisible to anyone not trained to see them. Their presence was a warning: this was not merely a social visit. The Consort had arrived with intention.

Gabriel moved with fluid grace, ivory and silver catching the filtered light of the ether sconces. His pale coat rippled softly with each step; white gold rings gleamed on his fingers.

He didn’t speak as they walked. He didn’t need to.

The nobles seated along the edges of the garden parted subtly, glances trailing like whispers. Some dipped their heads. Others watched openly. They had already been through the rumor storm, and now they waited to see how the story would unfold in person.

Irina, surprisingly, didn’t flinch.

As the garden’s floral dome arched above them and the heat of the glass-touched air warmed their path, she stood a little taller. Her smile was polite, her posture studied. This was her territory—the salons, the court chatter, the social rhythm. She’d grown up rehearsing these games. And though her eyes occasionally flicked to Gabriel like he might still faint or bite someone, she didn’t stumble.

"She’s terrifying," Alexandra murmured to Gabriel under her breath.

"She’s Blake-blooded," he replied. "We’re all terrifying."

Crista sat beneath the thistle arch, already watching them with the relaxed expression of someone who had orchestrated half of this chaos and intended to enjoy the rest.

Gabriel reached her table and dipped his head—not quite a bow, not quite a refusal. Just enough deference to acknowledge that the Dowager Empress still wielded the sharpest blade in any room.

"Crista," he said smoothly. "Apologies for the delay. It seems my free day has been reassigned."

Crista’s smile curved like smoke. "Don’t be silly, dear. This is your free day."

She gestured gracefully to the seat beside her.

"Come. Sit. Prove to them you’re more than a scandal painted in soft lighting."

Gabriel didn’t hesitate.

He took his seat, crossed his legs with the practiced elegance of a man raised among predators, and reached for the nearest cup of tea like it wasn’t loaded with social poison.

"Let’s give them something better to whisper about."

—

Gabriel had barely taken his second sip of tea when the first strike landed.

"Oh, Your Grace," cooed Lady Delphina Roseroth, draped in pale pink chiffon and diamonds sharp enough to blind. "You must be exhausted. These parties, these rumors... I can’t imagine how overwhelming it must be—especially with your delicate condition."

The air around the table shifted.

Delicate condition?

Irina blinked, her teacup pausing halfway to her lips. Alexandra slowly set hers down like a knife. Gabriel smiled without showing his teeth.

Gabriel’s smile was slow and razor-thin. "Lady Roseroth," he said sweetly, "how kind of you to take an interest in my well-being. I’m touched. Truly."

Lady Delphina fluttered her lashes, all coyness and concealed calculation. "Oh, we all care. After all, the palace has been... lively lately. And you—well, you’re such a central figure now. There are so many eyes on you."

"Then I hope they like what they see," Gabriel replied smoothly and took another sip of tea. "Though it’s funny—of all the rumors, the most ridiculous seem to bloom in gardens that don’t get enough sunlight."

That earned a faint gasp from one of the younger duchesses seated nearby. Irina looked like she was trying not to smirk. Alexandra didn’t bother.

Lady Virelle leaned in next, voice full of mock concern. "I do hope the stress hasn’t affected your rest, Your Grace. All these... misunderstandings. So unfortunate. Especially the ones involving Princess Anya."

Gabriel raised a brow, resting his chin on one hand. "Misunderstandings? Is that what we’re calling artistic fiction these days?"

"Oh, I wouldn’t say fiction," came another voice—silken and self-satisfied.

Lady Veronne was dressed in a pale blue gown, her dull brown hair adorned with gold pins.

She reclined against her chair like a cat lounging in a sunbeam, her fan slow and steady in her hand. "Some portraits are... evocative. Suggestive. And you know how people love to fill in the blanks."

Gabriel turned his gaze toward her, calm and deadly. "Do you know what a bond is, Lady Veronne?"

The fan paused.

Gabriel sat straighter now, his voice cool and clear. "A mating bond. Between two people who have accepted each other fully. Magic. Instinct. Mind. It’s not temporary. It’s not decorative. It’s a vow written into our very bones."

The table quieted. Even the birds beyond the hedges seemed to hush.

"If Damian bleeds, I bleed. If I suffer, he knows it. If I’m in danger, he’ll feel it in his spine." Gabriel’s tone didn’t rise, but it didn’t have to. "So unless any of you believe a forged portrait of me breathing the same air as another person is more intimate than that—then perhaps you’d do better gossiping about someone else’s courtship."

Lady Veronne’s fan clicked closed.

Crista, quiet until now, dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin and looked at Gabriel with open amusement. "You remind me of myself at your age. Only prettier."

Lady Delphina tried to laugh. It came out strained. "Well, we meant no offense, of course. Just... curiosity."

Gabriel smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes.

"Curiosity is healthy. Ignorance is not."

Alexandra took a sip of tea, leaned toward Irina, and whispered, "That’s going to be quoted in salons for a month."

Crista lifted her cup in a lazy toast to Gabriel. "To the Consort," she said. "And to the end of stupid questions."

Lady Veronne’s smile didn’t return.

Gabriel saw it—the crack just beneath the surface. The slight hitch in her perfectly timed sip, the way her fan stopped entirely, now clutched in her lap instead of fluttering like before.

"But surely," she began again, her voice still soft but tighter now, "even a bond doesn’t erase history, does it?" Her eyes gleamed with something darker. "Some people leave marks that magic can’t remove."

Crista’s teacup hit her saucer with a delicate clink. Not loud. Not sharp. But the weight of the gesture was enough to silence half the table.

Gabriel didn’t blink. "You’re absolutely right," he said, his voice velvet and iron. "Some scars remain. You should know that—your last husband left court with one, didn’t he? Right between the ribs."