Gregoris was stationed where he was supposed to be: at the edge of the dais, posture immovable, the Emperor's Bloodhound carved into ceremony and discipline.
And Rafael was doing it on purpose.
Damian noticed. Of course he did. Nothing escaped the emperor's attention, least of all the way Gregoris's gaze kept returning, controlled, restrained, but undeniably fixed.
"A bit distracting," Damian remarked mildly, eyes flicking toward the pale shimmer of fabric and gold across the hall. "Your husband seems to be enjoying the evening."
Gregoris did not look away. "He is conducting a psychological operation."
Damian's mouth curved. "Is it working?"
Gregoris exhaled slowly through his nose. "Excessively."
There was a pause, then Gregoris tilted his head, considering. "If Gabriel walked out dressed like that, intentionally placed in your line of sight, aware of what he was doing, what would you do?"
Damian did not even have to think.
"I would kill anyone who looked."
