Chapter 92: Chapter 92: Tactical marriage

A few days later, Rafael was working from home.

Which, at present, meant Gregoris’s mansion, and more precisely, the office Gregoris had prepared for him long before the vacation in the south, back when “temporary” had already been a polite fiction and “just in case” had meant “because you will end up here eventually.”

The room was quiet in the way expensive spaces always were, insulated from the world by thick walls, soft light, and an air of meticulous order. Tall windows let in the afternoon sun, which fell across dark wood, polished metal, and the neat, threatening stacks of documents spread across Rafael’s desk.

Supply chains, personnel rotations, medical provisioning, transport routes, and the delicate choreography of Shadows and imperial ceremonies trying very hard not to trip over one another. Everything had been verified, cross-verified, and re-verified by departments that trusted no one and therefore produced excellent paperwork.

Now all of it waited for his signature.

Rafael was halfway through a particularly dense file, pen moving in neat, impatient strokes, when the door opened.

He didn’t look up at first.

Then his pen paused.

He recognized the change in the air before the sound, the clean soap, the warm skin, and the scent of Gregoris himself.

Rafael lifted his head.

Gregoris stood in the doorway dressed in a white shirt, perfectly cut and obscenely expensive, with sleeves rolled back. Black trousers tailored to an inch of his body. Sapphire cufflinks catching the light when he moved. His blond hair was swept back, perfectly in place.

Rafael blinked once. “You’re home.”

“I am,” Gregoris said quietly.

He crossed the room without haste, with a controlled, unhurried stride. When he reached Rafael’s side, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

Rafael closed his eyes for a brief, traitorous moment.

“You were supposed to be at the base,” he murmured.

“I was,” Gregoris replied. “I finished early.”

Rafael opened one eye. “You do not finish early.”

The corner of Gregoris’s mouth curved. “I did everything important at the base, and the rest would be dealt with from my home office.”

Gregoris set a thin folder on the edge of Rafael’s desk, fingers precise, movements unhurried.

“Logistics,” he said. “Final confirmations from the southern supply corridor. They require your signature as well.”

Rafael exhaled softly. “Of course they do.” He reached for the pen again without hesitation, already half-buried in numbers and seals and the comforting tyranny of procedure. “Leave them there.”

Gregoris did. One document on top. Then another. Then, casually, one more slipped beneath the first stack as if it had always belonged there.

Rafael didn’t look up. He was already scanning, already signing, and already muttering under his breath about transport redundancies and medical allocations. Gregoris remained beside him, close enough that the warmth of his body and the faint scent of soap lingered in the air, close enough to comment softly when a clause needed attention, to point out a figure, and to answer a question.

It was domestic. Almost absurdly so.

Rafael flipped a page and signed. Flipped another, signed. He frowned briefly at a paragraph, made a note in the margin, and kept going, their conversation drifting to schedules, to the coronation, and to the absurd volume of candles the cathedral seemed to require.

“You’re enabling their excess,” Rafael remarked.

Gregoris hummed. “The clergy find reassurance in ritual. And in wax.”

Rafael snorted, sighed again, and slid the papers back into a neat pile. “There. Done. I hope the Empire appreciates how thoroughly it is being held together by my wrist.”

Gregoris reached out, gathering the documents.

“All of them?” he asked mildly.

Rafael waved a hand. “All of them.”

Gregoris glanced down, then very deliberately drew out the last sheet.

Rafael only noticed when the air shifted, when silence lingered a fraction too long, when that faint, dangerous amusement curled at the edges of Gregoris’s presence.

“What?” Rafael asked, finally looking up.

Gregoris held the paper between two fingers, eyes bright, mouth curved in something that was very much a smile.

“You signed this as well.”

Rafael’s gaze dropped.

The heading was unmistakable.

Imperial Registry of Bonds and Titles.

Marriage Act.

His signature sat at the bottom, elegant and infuriatingly final.

Rafael went utterly still.

“…You,” he said slowly, “are a menace.”

Gregoris’s grin deepened, unrepentant and quietly triumphant.

“You said that if I want it, I can deal with it.”

Rafael stared at the document as if it had personally betrayed him.

“I did not mean,” he said carefully, “that you could smuggle my consent into a pile of logistics forms like a criminal mastermind with a fountain pen.”

“You did not forbid it,” Gregoris replied, entirely too calmly.

Rafael looked up at him. “I assumed basic ethics.”

Gregoris’s expression softened, just a fraction. “You assumed I would wait until you had the emotional bandwidth. I assumed you would have none for months.”

There was a beat.

Then Rafael let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “So your solution was… paperwork ambush.”

“Efficient,” Gregoris said. “It has the signatures of Damian and Gabriel. Rafael… I am a criminal mastermind.”

“You slipped a marriage act between candle budgets and supply routes,” he said. “You had the Emperor and the Empress sign it. And you waited until I was tired, distracted, and three months pregnant to hand it to me.”

Gregoris inclined his head. “Optimal conditions.”

“And now what? Are we going to marry officially and publicly?” Rafael asked, leaning back in his chair. He was very tempted to yell at Gregoris right now. “I don’t have a ring.”

Gregoris looked at him for a moment, then reached into the inside pocket of his trousers.

He did it slowly as if aware of the drama of the gesture and choosing not to rush it.

When his hand came back out, it held a small, dark case.

Rafael’s eyes narrowed. “You did not.”

“I did,” Gregoris replied calmly.

He opened it.

Inside lay a simple band, platinum, unadorned except for a faint inner engraving with the crest of House Frasner intertwined with the imperial sigil.

“You said you didn’t have a ring,” Gregoris said. “That problem is solved.”

Rafael stared at it.

“…You prepared for everything,” he accused.

“I prepare for threats,” Gregoris said. “This is merely another kind of security.”

Rafael huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “So you ambushed me with paperwork, enlisted the Emperor and Empress as accomplices, and came armed with a ring.”

“Yes.”

“And you expect me not to yell.”

Gregoris met his gaze calmly. “You may yell. You may also wear it.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things.

“I’ve prepared a collar too, but you didn’t seem to like the other two I’ve sent before.”

“Please don’t make me remember about them. My blood pressure won’t take it.” Rafael huffed.

Gregoris’s mouth curved, just a fraction, the expression infuriatingly fond.

“They were… ambitious,” he admitted

Rafael closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “One of them had gemstones. Actual gemstones. I am pregnant, legally married without noticing, and you want me to process the existence of ceremonial neckwear.”

“They were symbolic,” Gregoris said mildly. “Status markers, traditional and meant to show protection.”

“They were alarming,” Rafael corrected. “And heavy. And my mother would have used them as proof that I had finally lost my mind.”

A pause.

“Still,” Gregoris added, unbothered, “they are ready when you are.”

Rafael dropped his hands and looked at him. “Right now, I am ready for tea. Possibly something with sugar. And several hours in which no one presents me with jewelry, contracts, or dynastic implications.”

Gregoris considered this. Then nodded once, as if this were a perfectly reasonable tactical request.

“I will have tea brought,” he said. “And I will refrain from producing additional symbols of lifelong commitment for the next few hours.”

Rafael huffed a laugh. “Your restraint is deeply appreciated.”

Gregoris leaned down again, this time brushing his lips lightly against Rafael’s hair and placing a soft kiss. “You are allowed time,” he said softly. “Even from me.”

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