CHAPTER 208: CHAPTER 203: TWELVE DAYS

The physician’s chambers in the private wing were far too clinical for Gabriel’s taste.

He was getting shivers from memories he didn’t have anymore. In the last week he had to deal with the rumors of his love life with Anya, political hearings that almost made his ears bleed, and a pissed-off Damian that he had taken leave from breaking his spine until the biweekly appointment.

Everything smelled of sterilized ether and dried mint leaves. The lighting was soft, enchanted to be calming, and the walls were a gentle slate blue—not quite dreary, not quite soothing. A pane of reinforced glass overlooked the palace gardens, but Gabriel wasn’t in the mood for scenery. He sat on the exam bed, legs crossed neatly, robe belted low and loose at the waist.

The physician, punctual as always, entered with a tablet in one hand and a rune disc in the other. He didn’t bother with small talk. Not anymore. This was their third meeting, and whatever illusion of polite distance they’d once upheld had evaporated somewhere between Gabriel’s exhaustion and the man’s dry humor.

"You’re five minutes early," Gabriel said without looking up. "That’s very ambitious for a man who’s about to tell me I’m either full of stress or full of royal lineage."

The physician gave a quiet, amused hum as he set the tablet down with clinical precision. "I prefer to avoid dramatic entrances. The last time I let you wait too long, you accused me of orchestrating a coup."

Gabriel tilted his head. "That never happened. Why is everyone so dramatic in this palace?"

The physician didn’t miss a beat. "Because subtlety gets you ignored, and theatrics get you remembered."

Gabriel exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as the rune disc lit up beside him. "That sounds like something Crista would say."

"She said it first," the physician confirmed, holding the scanner just above Gabriel’s abdomen. "When did you and His Majesty have the last intercourse?"

"I thought Edward reported everything."

The physician’s lips twitched—just barely. "He does. With flair. But this isn’t for the archives. It’s for the chart."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "We’re not doing this like a court transcript."

"I could summon a scribe," the physician offered mildly, adjusting the rune disc with clinical efficiency. "But they might faint. And I rather like my floor stain-free."

Gabriel groaned and flopped back against the exam bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. "A week ago. No, the day after the first appointment. Twelve days? We’ve been... busy."

The physician gave a knowing nod, his fingers moving gracefully over the tablet to mark the date. "Twelve days. That tracks."

The rune disc emitted a steady amber glow—warmer this time, more concentrated. The symbols along its edge pulsed in tandem with Gabriel’s heartbeat. The physician didn’t comment at first. He didn’t need to.

Gabriel peeked out from under his arm. "You’re being too quiet."

"I’m being respectful," the physician replied, tone dry as parchment. "You’re twelve days post-conception. Which, given your symptoms, is exactly where I’d expect you to be. Congratulations."

Gabriel stared at the ceiling for a moment, then slowly lowered his arm. "No. Absolutely not. Say it differently. Make it sound like an unfortunate clerical error."

The physician offered him a look that might have been sympathy if it weren’t so amused. "I can say it in six languages, and none of them will change the result."

Gabriel sat up slowly, robe falling slightly off one shoulder. "You’re enjoying this."

"I enjoy precision," the physician corrected, holding up a small vial of stabilizing tonic. "And this is a very precise moment in your life. Drink."

"Shouldn’t you be more... helpful with another omega? Where is your loyalty?"

The physician arched a brow, calm as ever. "My loyalty is to the patient, Your Grace. Not the archetype."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "So no solidarity among omegas?"

"Solidarity, yes. Enabling poor coping mechanisms?" He handed over the vial with a pointed look. "No."

"I’m cursed."

The physician didn’t miss a beat. "No, you are just pregnant."

Gabriel let out a long, theatrical exhale. "Same difference."

The man ignored that. He picked up his tablet again, scrolling with practiced fingers before pausing. "Given the timing—twelve days post-conception—you should start noticing symptoms soon. Fatigue is usually the first. You’ll think it’s the court draining you. It’s not."

"Oh, fantastic," Gabriel muttered. "So when I start falling asleep on ministers, I’ll have an excuse."

"Next will likely be scent sensitivity. Not to be confused with mood swings—though you’ll probably have those too. Mild at first. Don’t be alarmed if His Majesty starts smelling... stronger."

Gabriel blinked. "He already smells like power and ruin. What exactly do you mean by stronger?"

"Imagine that, but more intimate. Sharper. Like your body trying to make sure you never forget who did this to you."

Gabriel dragged a hand down his face. "That’s horrifying."

The physician tapped the screen. "There may also be nausea, aversion to certain textures, and random bursts of ether sensitivity. If you feel light-headed, don’t ignore it. And absolutely no heavy spellwork. Not until the bond stabilizes around the fetus."

"Wonderful," Gabriel said flatly. "I can’t cast, I can’t sleep, and I’ll probably punch someone in the senate for wearing too much cologne."

The physician gave a mild nod. "Correct. And if you so much as think about skipping meals or hiding symptoms, I will have Edward shadow you into the bath."

"He already does."

The physician blinked. "...Ah. Then I suppose my threats are outdated."

Gabriel sighed, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. "You think I’m exaggerating, but the man timed my breakfast tray down to the second. Yesterday he corrected a maid for bringing toast instead of croissants. I haven’t had privacy since the last dynasty."

"You are the Consort now," the physician said mildly. "Privacy is a peasant’s luxury."

"And that makes me rethink my choices." Gabriel paused. "You said no spellwork."

The physician gave him a long-suffering look, the kind that came from years of dealing with stubborn royals and dramatic omegas.

"No spellwork that alters the body," he clarified. "But calming enchantments around the room? Stabilizing runes for the fetus? Those are standard. You’re not a peasant, Your Grace, but your body is still working off peasant instincts. Meaning it panics when something new takes root."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "So... a contract etched into my soul that feeds on ether is not a big deal, is it?"

The physician didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head, the way one might when presented with a particularly bold confession over tea.

"That," he said carefully, "was a different conversation. And one I wasn’t allowed to be part of, despite being the one trying to keep you alive."

Gabriel’s expression darkened with slow amusement. "So you do know."

"I know enough to lose my license if I say the wrong thing." The physician returned to adjusting the runes, voice smooth as glass. "Let’s just say the Empire has many secrets, and you’re currently hosting two of them."

Gabriel blinked. "Two?"

The physician met his gaze without blinking. "The contract. And the heir." He sighed. "His Majesty has already resolved the most complicated aspect of the contract, and if you remain within the palace walls or in His Majesty’s presence, nothing will happen."