The door to the physician's wing slammed open with enough force to startle one of the interns in the hallway. Papers rustled. A mug shook. The ambient ether flickered once in the overhead panel—whether from palace resonance or sheer irritation, no one could say.
Dr. Marin looked up slowly from his desk, the same man who had told Gabriel two nights ago that he was "a biological myth" and should handle it "naturally, the same way he got pregnant."
He was already regretting not faking a sick day.
"Lord Gabriel," he said mildly. "You're early. Again."
Gabriel swept past the curtain with all the force of a winter front, coat flaring behind him like scandal. "I need answers. And I need them without a sarcasm tax this time."
Marin blinked. Once. "I'll do my best. Which, as you know, is limited."
Gabriel stopped in front of the bioscan table, expression tight. "I want to confirm that I am not—and I say this with all due dramatic clarity—going to get pregnant again during heat."
