The next morning arrived with pale grey light and the scent of chamomile.
Lucas sat on the edge of the medical exam table in a private suite tucked behind Serathine's east library. It didn't look like a clinic—no harsh lights, no glaring stainless steel. The walls were lined with pale wood paneling, and the instrument tray held only the essentials: gloves, gel, a stethoscope, and a few vials for bloodwork.
Everything was clean. Quiet. Designed to feel like a place of rest, not inspection.
Still, Lucas's posture was rigid. His shoulders drawn tight, spine locked straight as if bracing for a blow. The cotton robe they'd given him was soft against his skin, but it didn't stop the cold from settling under it.
The doctor—a beta woman in her late fifties with warm eyes and a soft accent—spoke without urgency.
"Good morning, Lord Lucas," she said gently, as if she already knew that anything louder might make him flinch. "I'm Dr. Elane. If you want to stop at any point, you can. This is just a routine checkup. No surprises."
He gave a short nod.
"May I?" she asked, indicating his arm.
He nodded again, slower this time.
She tied the tourniquet with practiced care, not too tight. Her assistant—also a beta, young, calm—prepped the vials without speaking.
Lucas's gaze stayed locked on the wall across the room as the needle went in. He didn't move, but when the alcohol pad brushed his inner elbow afterward, his fingers twitched.
They noticed, but said nothing.
"We'll run a full panel," Elane said, gently removing the tourniquet. "We're looking at hormone balance, nutrient levels, and stress markers. The suppressant traces will show us what you were using and how recently."
She paused.
"Do you know what brand it was?"
Lucas shook his head. "Unlabeled," he said quietly.
She nodded once, without judgment. "All right."
He expected questions—Why did you take it? For how long? Who gave it to you?
But they didn't come.
Instead, Elane stepped back and opened his chart again, reviewing the physical notes taken that morning. Pulse. Blood pressure. Weight.
"You've lost weight recently," she said, almost conversationally. "But your vitals are stable. We'll want to run a DEXA scan soon to check your bone density, given the suppressant history. You're pale but hydrated. Nothing alarming."
She glanced over the clipboard, then up at him.
"Would you be comfortable scheduling a follow-up? Somewhere less formal?"
Lucas blinked. "Why?"
"Because you seem uncomfortable," Dr. Elane said gently. "And we're not here to put you under a spotlight. We're here to make sure you're healthy and provide the best care possible."
Lucas stared at her for a moment, not suspicious—just… unsure.
He was used to words meaning something else.
To kindness being a prelude. To comfort being currency.
But this woman, and this room, did not feel like a transaction.
She waited, not pushing. The assistant busied herself quietly in the background, wiping down surfaces, checking vials, pretending not to listen.
Lucas shifted on the table, adjusting the robe at his collar. "I… think I'd like that," he said at last.
Dr. Elane smiled. Not the soft-edged, pitying kind, but a small, steady thing. "We'll set it up privately. Nothing official. Just a check-in with people you trust."
He nodded, eyes falling to the tiled floor, the weight in his chest slightly eased.
She stood and gently closed the chart. "That's all for today. Your results will be sent directly to Lady Serathine's office, but I'll summarize them for you too. In plain terms."
Lucas almost smiled at that. Plain terms sounded like a luxury.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
And for once, he meant it.
—
The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting warm amber across the deep emerald walls of the study. Books lined every shelf, stacked in neat rows, none of them ornamental. A glass decanter sat untouched beside two heavy chairs—Serathine's usual seat and the one she'd pulled closer for Lucas.
Lucas sat in it now, his fingers laced together, wrists resting on his knees, posture tight.
Serathine didn't sit yet. She stood behind her desk, flipping through a slim cream folder with gold-embossed initials—her house seal, understated but unmistakable.
No assistants. No guards. Just the two of them and the sound of paper.
When she finally looked up, her expression was unreadable, but not cold.
"I wanted you to see them before anyone else," she said, her voice smooth as always but lower than usual. "You deserve to know."
Lucas nodded once, unsure what to say.
She crossed the room and handed him the folder, placing it gently in his lap like it might break if handled wrong. Then she sat across from him, ankles crossed, silent.
He opened it.
The language was clinical—blood hormone levels, stress markers, cycle phase probabilities—but someone, probably Dr. Elane, had annotated the margins in blue ink.
Cycle: Delayed but responsive.
No long-term damage detected.
Fertility markers within healthy range.
Psychosomatic interference is likely—recommend further evaluation only with consent.
Lucas read it twice. Then again.
The words blurred, not from tears, but from exhaustion. From years of hearing the opposite—or worse, hearing nothing.
"You're not broken," Serathine said quietly. "I told you that."
He didn't speak. Couldn't. His jaw worked once, but no words came.
She leaned back in her chair, watching him with that same sharp stillness she always wore when she was waiting to see if someone would flinch.
He didn't.
She smiled faintly. "You may choose when—or if—you awaken. There will be no pressure from me. Not from Trevor. Not from anyone. You are not here to perform."
Lucas's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the folder.
"This changes nothing," Serathine said, voice still calm but now edged with steel. "You are under my house. Protected. Recognized. Whatever your biology does or doesn't do is no one's business but yours."
He looked up at her slowly.
And for the first time since arriving at the estate, he let a piece of his guard fall.
"…thank you," he said.
Real. Quiet. His.
Serathine gave a nod in return.
"Good," she murmured, reaching for the tea on the table beside her. "Now that we've buried that ghost, how do you feel about publicly decimating your mother at the Gala?"
Lucas blinked.
Then—unexpectedly—he laughed. A real sound. Dry, but honest.
The folder still rested on his lap, its edges warm from his hands, but the weight of it no longer pulled him down.
"Tempting," he said, rubbing his thumb along the blue ink margin. "But I think letting her watch me walk in wearing your name will be enough."
Serathine's lips curled, satisfied. "Spoken like a D'Argente."
She sipped her tea. Then, as casually as if discussing a guest list:
"Trevor will meet you this evening. Private dinner. He asked to speak with you before the Gala. No handlers. No press."
Lucas stilled. Not tense. Just… considering.
"He asked?" he repeated.
"He didn't demand," she clarified. "He wants to know you. But only if you want."
Lucas glanced down again at the folder, then out toward the window. The light had shifted, warm and golden across the distant hills. Evening would fall soon enough.
He took a breath. Measured. Thoughtful.
Then:
"Sure," he said. "Why not?"
Serathine raised an eyebrow, pleased. "You'll want to wear something simple. He doesn't respond well to glamour."
Lucas gave her a wry look. "Is this a date or a military negotiation?"
Serathine's eyes gleamed. "With Trevor Fitzgeralt? It's the same thing."