Gabriel stood like a reluctant statue, while three attendants surrounded him with the reverence of priests preparing a noble for execution.
The jacket was stiff, high-collared, and strongly opposed to movement. One attendant's hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the clasp near his throat, her gaze flickering to the mark on his neck before quickly moving away. The second struggled with a cufflink. The third worked in near silence, focused on every angle and fold.
Gabriel kept his cool. He didn't glare.
They weren't the ones who deserved it.
Instead, he exhaled—long, slow, just shy of a sigh—and said, dry but kind, "You can breathe. I don't bite."
A pause. Then the second attendant smiled nervously and nodded.
"I do bruise, though," Gabriel added. "So go easy on the spine. It's on strike."
Edward, standing nearby, folded his arms. "You're doing this for the Empire."
