Seven stared at him in the kind of silence that had ended wars and started them. Then his gaze dropped again to the faint swelling at Arion's mouth, to the neat little mark that was almost obscene in its restraint.
"I think," Seven said slowly, voice dangerously calm, "that your fiancé has better self-control than most of the men I've stitched back together."
Arion's mouth twitched, because of course it did. "Correct."
Seven exhaled, wrote another line, and the stylus scratched across the tablet like it was personally offended.
"Bite: superficial. Cause: omega," Seven muttered. Then, without looking up, "Out of spite."
Arion lifted his brows. "You're assuming."
Seven finally looked up, eyes flat. "I'm diagnosing."
Boreas thumped his tail once, as if confirming the accuracy of the chart.
