"I've come here as fast as I can, only to meet the allegedly injured crown prince in his bedroom, a room filled with pheromones so thick that it is still ventilating after three hours. And a bitten lip. What is this?" the man asked, pacing through the sitting room of Arion's suite while followed by a very happy Boreas.
"You are my physician, Seven," Arion said, unbothered.
Seven stopped mid-step and turned on him with the slow, dawning expression of a man realizing he had been summoned under false pretenses.
"I am," Seven agreed, voice strained with professional dignity hanging by a thread. "Which implies injury. Blood. Backlash. Internal damage. Possibly organs attempting to resign."
He pointed two fingers toward Arion's face.
"Not… romance."
Arion blinked once. "It's not romance."
Seven's eyes narrowed. "Your lip is bitten."
Arion's gaze did not shift. "I am aware."
