"I am saying," Marin interrupted gently, "that you are approximately six weeks pregnant."
Rafael went completely still, as if someone had pressed a pause command on him. His fingers tightened against the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.
"…Excuse me?" He managed, a fraction too sharp, a fraction too disbelieving.
Marin looked at him over his glasses with the long-suffering patience of a man who had delivered inconvenient truths to emperors, generals, and reckless omegas alike.
"You let a dominant alpha bond you," he said dryly. "You let him claim you, mark you, and anchor his entire endocrine and etheric system to yours. And you are surprised that biology followed through?"
Rafael stared at him. "That is not an answer. That is an accusation."
"It is an observation," Marin corrected. "One supported by lab results, hormone profiles, and about fifty years of experience with bodies that insist on doing what they were designed to do regardless of personal readiness."
