CHAPTER 206: CHAPTER 201: THE LEASH ON A CROWN

Irina had expected intimidation. Maybe awe. A few polished warnings from Gabriel. Some teasing. She had not expected to feel like a mouse in the middle of a lion’s den, with the lion already licking its teeth.

It started well enough.

Gabriel had been sharper than she’d imagined, less like the tragic, soft omega the salons whispered about and more like something forged and tempered in the shadows of palace halls. Clever. Blunt. Wicked in his honesty. Not cruel, but not kind either—not in the ways court ladies hoped for.

When he asked about her fantasies, Irina had nearly choked.

She thought it was a joke at first. But the longer he stared at her, the more she realized it wasn’t. Gabriel von Jaunez didn’t have time for courtly illusions. And more importantly—he wasn’t interested in making her feel comfortable.

She had expected him to be more docile, more delicate. An omega with titles stuffed into his sleeves and the Emperor’s scent on his collarbone. But Gabriel von Jaunez was not porcelain. He was steel in silk. Sharp enough to cut through whatever fantasy she’d been nursing since the first palace ball.

Still, she survived it.

Gabriel hadn’t thrown her out. He hadn’t dismissed her with that signature, bone-cutting tone of his. He’d actually given her a chance.

One month.

Irina had walked out of that study feeling like she’d passed a test she hadn’t studied for. Her chest tight with adrenaline, her head buzzing with the low ache of embarrassment and something else—awe, maybe. The kind that left you shaking hours after.

She should have listened to Astana.

He was the only one who hadn’t sung praises about the Emperor. The only one who didn’t romanticize the golden crown, the golden eyes, and the golden promises. Her father? Her other brothers? They spoke about Damian Lyon like he was a war god reborn. A legend. A lion draped in power, glory, and calculated mercy.

But Astana?

Astana had looked her dead in the eye and said, "He’s not a man you should ever try to charm. He’s not made for softness. And he won’t care if you fall apart at his feet."

Irina had thought he was being cruel. That her love for Damian was a joke to him.

Now she understood he was being kind.

Because when Damian had walked into the study that day—boots streaked with mud, gold eyes hard and burning, temper coiled like a whip behind his spine—it hadn’t felt like meeting an Emperor.

It had felt like staring at the storm that killed kingdoms.

She had once thought Gabriel was clever. Attractive. Politically inconvenient. She thought the rumors painted him half-captive, half-villain. A scandal-bound omega too bold for his own good.

And now, after witnessing Gabriel at the tea party—poised, venom-laced, and impervious beneath the sharpened whispers of highborn women—Irina saw the rest of the truth.

It wasn’t just that Gabriel survived the palace.

He commanded it.

They watched him like they couldn’t decide whether to worship or flay him. But Crista sat at his side, amused and quietly approving. Alexandra sipped her tea like she was waiting for the first body to drop. And when Lady Veronne tried to dance too close to the edge, Gabriel made her bleed—politely, beautifully—with nothing more than words and the weight of a bond she could never break.

Irina knew these women. Their power came from their husbands, their bloodlines, and the names they wore like perfumes. But Gabriel’s power came from himself. From the way he didn’t flinch. From the way even the Emperor couldn’t bear to be too far from his side.

She had seen Damian with Gabriel now. Not the Emperor—the man. And it wasn’t Gabriel who bent.

It was Damian.

She hadn’t known that was possible.

’I have a lot to learn from this man,’ she thought, barely managing to sip her tea without spilling it. Not Damian—Gabriel.

Because it was Gabriel who held the leash on that power. Not with fear. Not with submission. But with something more dangerous: complete self-possession.

He didn’t cower before the throne. He made the throne turn toward him.

And watching the ladies flounder under his smile, watching Crista lean back like a cat basking in chaos, watching Damian arrive and gravitate to Gabriel like gravity itself was optional otherwise—Irina felt her illusions die cleanly.

"He is impressive," said Alexandra, leaning toward her with a wide grin that was all teeth and delight. "And terrifying, if you’re foolish enough to go against him."

Irina didn’t look away from the table. From the way Gabriel stirred his tea with maddening calm, like he hadn’t just dismantled half the social hierarchy over cakes and compliments.

"I thought he’d be more... elegant," Irina murmured.

Alexandra snorted. "He is. Elegantly ruthless. That’s the secret."

Irina lowered her teacup, fingers trembling just slightly as she set it down. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen noblewomen retreat that fast. Not even when Countess Marlane’s wig caught fire."

Alexandra smirked into her cup. "That was the third-best party I ever attended. This one might outrank it."

Irina turned to her, still a little breathless. "He didn’t even raise his voice."

"He doesn’t have to," Alexandra said, brushing a curl behind her ear. "Gabriel has this way of making people feel like they’re bleeding even when he’s being polite."

"That’s a skill?"

"It’s an art," Alexandra replied dryly. "He was raised in a house full of predators. You learn fast when love and leverage look the same."

Irina’s gaze wandered back to Gabriel, who now laughed softly at something Damian said. The Emperor’s entire posture had shifted—relaxed, warmer. Protective, not possessive. It was subtle. Intimate.

"Is it always like this?" Irina asked. "Between them?"

Alexandra followed her gaze, then smiled faintly. "No. Sometimes it’s worse."

She snorted into her tea, nearly choking. "You are lucky enough to not see Gabriel this morning. God. What a day to have eyes."

Irina blinked. "That bad?"

"That blessed," Alexandra corrected dramatically. "He was in Damian’s robe, half-asleep, completely wrecked from last night, and still had the audacity to glare at Edward for bringing tea and not coffee."