"No," the physician said bluntly. "Because this shouldn't be possible. But it is. Which means we deal with what's real, not what's recorded."
He looked at both of them now, his gaze even and vaguely exhausted, as though he'd aged five years during this appointment.
"The Consort is marked," he went on, "so his pheromones are—at this stage—selective. They'll only trigger to Your Majesty. That limits risk, but not reaction."
Gabriel blinked. "Reaction?"
"I advise," the physician said, adjusting his scanner with a resigned sigh, "that you both take some heat or rut days and go through it. Properly. In private. Preferably in a location without breakable furniture."
Gabriel's brow lifted. "Are you prescribing sex?"
"I'm prescribing survival," the physician deadpanned.
Then he added, without a hint of apology, "Also, the heat might induce rut. Your Majesty should be aware of that."
