CHAPTER 175: CHAPTER 170: LUNCHEON (1)

The Winter Palace was far too pretty for politics.

Snow-dusted glass chandeliers, ribbons of pale gold, and bowls of floating orchids. The kind of decor that made everyone look elegant and underfed. Music hummed from a distant quartet. Silver forks tinkled against porcelain. It was the kind of event where scandals didn’t happen; they were scheduled.

Gabriel was seated in prime position on one of the central tables, next to the Emperor’s seat.

To his right lounged Max, elbow hooked over his chair, wine glass twirling dangerously close to disaster.

To his left, after the empty throne, sat Christian, somehow looking both royal and bored enough to stage a coup if it meant an early exit.

Crista Lyon sat across from them, like the Empress Dowager she was, sharp-eyed, composed, and vaguely amused by the male attention deficit playing out on either side of her.

"I can’t feel my soul," Max muttered, stabbing a perfectly cut fruit spiral with a kind of insulted confusion. "Why is it shaped like that?"

"Because someone’s overpaid cook thinks we eat for decoration," Gabriel replied, taking a slow sip of wine. "Which is accurate in your case."

"This must be in spite of Anya and Elliot’s marriage," Max said, swirling his wine like a weapon. "Christian, you are now free; you have escaped Anya’s cannonball."

Christian didn’t even blink. "Yes, and into the loving arms of boredom." He was not going to show everyone how relieved he was that the marriage had not gone through.

Gabriel snorted into his glass. "You’re both ridiculous."

Crista, dabbing delicately at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, murmured, "And yet, somehow, this table remains the most tolerable part of the luncheon."

"Because we’re entertaining," Max said proudly.

"Because you’re half a bottle in," Gabriel corrected.

Max grinned. "Same thing."

Gabriel leaned back slightly in his chair, his soreness beginning to catch up with him; even the alcohol on an empty stomach was no longer helping. He reached for his collar and stretched it for a moment; it was pressing against his bruises and itching his throat like crazy.

And his collar slid slightly lower without him realizing.

The marks were there, bold and undeniable now that they were visible in full light. Not just one or two. A constellation of bruises, half-faded bite impressions, and ether-burned skin shaped by magic and teeth.

Christian froze mid-reach for his fork.

Max’s mouth parted wordlessly. Then he choked on a sound that may have once tried to be a laugh but died somewhere in the back of his throat.

"Gabriel," Max whispered, horrified and delighted. "What the heck happened?"

Christian leaned forward slowly, like a scholar about to examine a cursed artifact. "Is that... ether scarring?"

Gabriel blinked. "What?"

Max hissed, "Gabriel, that’s not a love bite, that’s a territorial claim."

Gabriel reached for his collar a half-second too late. His fingers brushed the edge of a half-faded mark just as both of them went pale.

"Oh my gods," Christian whispered. "Did he brand you?"

"I was there," Gabriel muttered, yanking the collar higher with all the grace of a man adjusting a noose. "I don’t need a commentary."

Max clutched his wineglass like a lifeline. "We do. We need notes. Was that why Edward called for the doctor in the morning?"

Gabriel didn’t look at him. "No. Actually, not just for that."

Christian arched a brow. "There’s a just?"

Max leaned in like a man about to receive sacred gossip. "Go on."

Gabriel picked up his wine and took a long, deliberate sip. "That is not important."

Christian grinned. "It sounds very important."

Max’s eyes sparkled. "Was there blood loss? A broken chair? An actual imperial complaint filed for property damage?"

Gabriel set the glass down with a muted clink and stared at the white linen tablecloth, as if regretting every life decision that had brought him to this point. His patience had officially evacuated the palace. If the brothers were so interested in his private life, then fine.

They should be scarred.

"It was screening for pregnancy," he said flatly.

Max choked.

Christian dropped his fork.

Crista did not flinch across the table, but her hand paused briefly above her wineglass, a faint sign of reaction.

Max blinked. "I—what?"

Gabriel didn’t blink. "Edward scheduled it first thing. Blood work. Hormonal charts. Magical compatibility diagnostics. All very professional and soul-wrenching."

Christian made a strangled noise. "You’re serious."

"Do I look like I’m joking?"

Max stared at him with something between awe and horror. "Wait. So I’m an uncle?"

Gabriel groaned. "No. Gods, no."

Christian leaned in, eyes wide. "We might be?"

Max looked horrified. "I’m not ready for that kind of responsibility. I don’t even own proper shoes for a naming ceremony."

Christian leaned in, eyes wide. "We might be?"

Gabriel gave him a long, slow look. "You’re not anything yet. Calm down."

Max slapped a hand on the table. "I need a drink. A real one. Not this decorative flower juice."

"You’ve had three glasses of wine," Gabriel pointed out.

"Yes, and none of them prepared me for unclehood." Max looked positively stricken. "I haven’t even bribed a court nanny yet."

"There’s nothing to name, Max," Gabriel said, his voice dry enough to shatter bone. "The tests were routine. Edward’s being proactive."

Christian grinned like he was witnessing history. "So what you’re saying is the Empire might get its next heir through the scientific meddling of a power-hungry butler?"

Gabriel drained the rest of his wine. "Yes. And I will personally haunt all of you if you tell anyone."

Max lifted his glass like a toast. "To haunting, unclehood, and medically scheduled chaos."

Crista’s eyes had narrowed to a line of regal patience.

She rose smoothly. "Gabriel, we’re walking. Now."

Gabriel sighed, already standing. "Will this end in violence?"

"If we’re lucky," she replied.

As they departed the table, Max whispered after him, "If it’s twins, I demand naming rights."

"Are you planning to be a father?" came a cool, measured voice.

Gabriel halted mid-step.

Crista, however, didn’t. With the strength only a Lyon matriarch could wield in heels and velvet, she redirected his arm with a smooth, no-nonsense pivot toward the open balcony.

Max looked like he’d just been slapped with a wine-soaked napkin. "Oh no."