CHAPTER 429: CHAPTER 423: MATERNAL

The palace was still dark when the knock came, soft and apologetic but persistent in a way that implied terror had trumped etiquette. Gabriel didn’t stir at first. He was warm. Pinned under layers of velvet sheets, Damian’s thigh, and the kind of exhaustion that came with being bonded, politically irreplaceable, and sleep-deprived thanks to an infant who seemed to believe 4 a.m. was prime rebellion hour.

The knock came again.

Louder this time. Followed by a baby’s wail, shrill, furious, and insulted.

Gabriel exhaled into the pillow. "No."

The door creaked open a little.

A voice floated in, tentative. "Your Majesties?"

Damian’s voice, smooth and laced with sleep, emerged from somewhere behind Gabriel’s shoulder. "You’re either here to announce the palace is burning, or you’re in the wrong room."

"I-I apologize, Your Majesty. But the young prince... he... he refuses to stop crying. Or eat. Or be held. He... he seems quite agitated."

Gabriel didn’t lift his head. "He’s ten weeks old. He’s always agitated."

The poor nanny tried again. "We’ve attempted swaddling, skin-to-skin, humming, herbal milk blend, Lady Crista’s lullaby cube..."

"Let me guess," Gabriel cut in, finally dragging the covers down. His curls were a half-matted halo of sleep. "He spat it out, threw up, and screamed louder."

"Yes, Your Grace."

A long pause.

"Did he bite anyone?"

"Only the sleeve. Of my uniform. Several times."

Another pause. Then, from Damian, dry and amused, "So he’s escalating."

Gabriel swung his legs over the edge of the bed like a man preparing for battle. "I’ll deal with it."

He didn’t bother with a robe. He stormed to the nursery barefoot and shirtless, looking more like a sleep-deprived saint than an imperial consort. The moment he crossed the threshold, the screaming stopped.

Dead silence. Suspicious. Weaponized.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes at the bassinet like it had personally offended him.

Arik blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, fists curled tight near his face, golden eyes wet and gleaming under the low nursery lights. His mouth was still parted mid-wail, but no sound came out. Just a wobble. Just breath.

Gabriel didn’t speak.

He stepped forward and leaned down, picking the child up with a movement so practiced it betrayed him. Ten weeks of sleepless nights had etched it into his bones: hand to the base of the skull, thumb over the shoulder blade, wrap, and lift.

Arik nestled in instantly, hiccuping against his chest. Gabriel sighed.

"You win," he muttered, pressing a kiss to the crown of his son’s soft, downy head. "Congratulations. You’ve outmaneuvered four nannies and your father’s last nerve. Happy now?"

Arik gurgled.

Gabriel carried him to the glider, seating himself with a sigh, the exhaustion temporarily giving way to something quieter, something deeply maternal that startled even him.

He didn’t rush. He checked the bottle himself. Warm but not too hot. The blend was just right.

"Let’s try again," he murmured, cradling the baby into the crook of his elbow and tilting the bottle just so.

Arik latched this time. No protest. No gagging, no drama.

Just... peace.

Gabriel’s breath caught out of sheer disbelief.

"Oh, now you eat," he said dryly, but his voice was soft. "Traitor."

He watched the baby nurse with slow, greedy gulps, his golden lashes fluttering each time he swallowed. Gabriel’s fingers brushed along the round curve of his son’s cheek, then his small fist, then the tiny ear that seemed almost too delicate to be real.

The milk was gone in under three minutes.

Gabriel lifted him, shifting him upright, hand cradling the back of his tiny neck.

"Alright, little tyrant. Let’s hear it."

He patted gently. Once. Twice. On the third, Arik let out a surprisingly dignified burp.

Gabriel blinked.

Arik blinked back.

"Congratulations," Gabriel said again, slower. "You’ve become self-aware."

He stood and walked back to the imperial chamber like he hadn’t just had an entire existential shift in a glider chair. Arik had gone boneless against his chest, thumb lodged firmly in his mouth now, as if he hadn’t just summoned royal chaos to their doorstep.

Gabriel pushed open the door with his foot.

Damian was already awake.

Propped up against the pillows, golden eyes bright in the dark, hair tousled but every inch the Emperor, even shirtless and half-covered in blankets.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at the two of them, Gabriel shirtless and barefoot, Arik drooling and victorious, and held out his arms.

Gabriel hesitated.

Then he came to the bed, sat carefully at the edge, and let Damian take the baby.

"I thought you were going to sleep through it."

"I would’ve," Damian said, cradling Arik like he was something precious and dangerous at once. "But your sigh when he latched sounded like divine intervention."

Gabriel huffed a tired laugh and rubbed at his face. "He ate. He burped. He is not possessed."

"Yet."

"I said what I said."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the day not yet begun pressing faintly at the edges of the night.

Damian shifted the baby higher against his chest, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You were gentle with him."

Gabriel glanced over, lips twitching. "Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation."

"You looked like a mother."

Gabriel blinked once. Then he leaned back on the bed, next to them, curling a hand under his head. "I am one."

"Yes," Damian murmured, looking down at the sleeping boy in his arms. "And you’re brilliant at it."

Gabriel didn’t answer, but a quiet flush bloomed across his cheekbones.

Arik stirred once, adjusted, and settled deeper between them like he owned the Empire.

—

The light hadn’t shifted much yet, just a soft, pearled glow beginning to press against the curtains, when the door eased open with a whisper and a sigh. The kind of entrance one could make after over a decade of dressing the Emperor without being executed for it.

Edward.

He paused just inside the threshold.

There they were.

His Emperor, shirtless and already halfway tangled in silk sheets; his Empress, equally bare-chested, one arm flung over his eyes, curls unruly, and mouth parted in the kind of defenseless sleep that Gabriel would loathe being witnessed in. And between them, sprawled like a smug usurper, lay the young prince. Diaper slightly askew. One tiny fist clenched in Damian’s chest hair. The other flopped over Gabriel’s wrist like he owned it.

Edward sighed.

Deeply.

And with long-suffering dignity.

He cleared his throat once. Just loud enough to count.

Gabriel didn’t stir.

Damian did.

Barely.

His lashes parted, golden eyes already sharp despite the hour. But instead of rising like a sovereign, he simply curled his arm tighter around Arik and muttered, "No."

"Your Majesty," Edward intoned, voice clipped, "the northern delegation arrives in three hours. You’re scheduled to meet them alongside the Minister of Infrastructure and the Duchess of Crescent Hall. That will require, at minimum, a bath, a robe, and the use of a brush."

Damian blinked slowly, like a man faced with the possibility of war before caffeine. "What if I refuse?"