Shadow Unit Scandal: The Commander's Omega-Chapter 89: Competent

"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."

Rafael swallowed. "You’re certain."

"Yes."

"And it’s... stable?"

"Early," Marin replied. "But stable. Your body is already adapting. The fatigue, the warmth, the changes in appetite, and the heightened sensitivity were not vacation side effects. They were signals."

Rafael closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, as if letting the information settle into place rather than fighting it.

"...He knew," he said quietly.

"He suspected," Marin corrected again. "Which is why he insisted on a full checkup instead of trusting your ’I’m fine.’"

Rafael opened his eyes.

Then he screamed.

Not a polite, controlled sound. Not a dignified noble outcry. A full, raw, furious shout that echoed off the sterile walls of the medical wing and made at least one assistant outside flinch.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN SIX WEEKS?!!"

He cut himself off, breathing hard, hands gripping the edge of the table like it was the only solid thing in a suddenly untrustworthy world.

Silence fell.

Marin waited it out with the calm of a man who had once stood in collapsing fortresses and now stood in collapsing emotional realities.

Rafael drew in a breath. Then another. Then, with terrifying calm:

"...I have to kill an alpha."

Marin closed his eyes for a second, like a man silently counting to ten.

"No," he said firmly. "You do not."

Rafael looked at him. "I very much do."

"You are pregnant," Marin replied, voice turning iron under the calm. "Which means you will not be killing anyone, maiming anyone, poisoning anyone, or emotionally eviscerating anyone into an early grave."

"That last one is my specialty."

"Not for the next several months," Marin cut in. "And certainly not the father. The child will require both parents alive, functional, and preferably not at war with each other."

Rafael stared at him.

"You’re assuming I’m keeping it."

Marin met his gaze evenly. "I am stating facts. What you decide is yours. But biology does not care about emotional timing, and neither does the Empire. If you carry, you will be protected. If you do not, that is also your choice. But you will not make that choice in a fit of rage."

The room hummed quietly with wards and distant palace life.

Rafael closed his eyes again, drawing a slow, steady breath, the kind he used when the world had just gone to hell and he refused to let it see him stagger.

"...The baby stays," he said quietly.

Marin inclined his head, as if he had expected no other answer.

There was a pause.

Rafael opened his eyes.

"But," he added, with a calm that was far too thoughtful to be harmless, "I make no promises about the alpha."

Marin looked at him over his glasses, unimpressed. "The alpha in question is your mate, not a rogue operative."

"Details," Rafael muttered. "Highly aggravating details."

"Rafael," Marin said, voice firm now, "you are not killing the father of your child."

Rafael’s mouth twitched. "I didn’t say kill. I said... I make no promises."

"That is not reassuring."

"It’s honest."

Marin exhaled slowly, the sound long and deliberate, like a man bracing himself for a war that would be fought with tea, charts, and infuriatingly reasonable schedules.

"Honesty is appreciated," he said. "Restraint is mandatory."

He reached for a tablet, stylus already in hand, slipping back into the role of physician with the same ease Gregoris slipped into command.

"You will return in four weeks. No later. Earlier if there is bleeding, sharp pain, dizziness that does not resolve, sudden fever, or if your pheromones destabilize." He paused, then added dryly, "Which they will, because your nervous system is currently renegotiating its entire existence."

Rafael made a soft, unhappy sound.

"You will eat," Marin continued. "Regularly. Properly. No skipping meals because you are busy, angry, or trying to prove a philosophical point to your own metabolism. High protein, steady glucose, iron, omega-3s, folates. I will have the kitchen send you a list, and if you argue with it, I will personally haunt your tray."

"I already dislike this pregnancy," Rafael murmured.

"Good. Dislike means you are paying attention." Marin tapped the slate. "Hydration. Sleep. No stimulants beyond mild tea. No ether overexertion. No extended pheromone duels. And absolutely no field operations that involve blades, explosives, poison, or situations where someone might ’accidentally’ fall out a window."

Rafael lifted a brow. "You’re being very specific."

"I know my patients."

Then Marin’s gaze sharpened.

"And this," he said, setting the tablet down, "is not a suggestion. You are under a medical ban from crime, vendettas, assassinations, covert warfare, and emotionally catastrophic confrontations."

Rafael blinked. "You cannot ban personality traits."

"I can when they threaten uterine stability."

There was a beat.

"You are also under restriction from high emotional volatility," Marin went on. "Which means no deliberately provoking your mate, no strategic self-sabotage, and no brooding in dark rooms plotting dramatic exits from your own life."

Rafael huffed quietly. "That eliminates most of my hobbies."

"Temporarily," Marin said. "You may resume being a menace after delivery. Until then, you are a menace with prenatal appointments."

He slid a small, sealed file across the table.

"Schedule. Supplements. Emergency contacts. And yes," he added before Rafael could speak, "your alpha is on the list, because whether you like it or not, his physiology is already synchronizing to yours. Stress in you will echo in him, and vice versa. Which means if you attempt to emotionally murder him, your blood pressure will be the first casualty."

Rafael stared at the file, then at Marin.

"...This is horrifyingly thorough."

"I am horrifyingly competent."

Silence settled again, softer this time.

Rafael finally exhaled, long and slow, one hand resting unconsciously over his abdomen as if his body had already accepted what his mind was still circling.

"A month," he repeated. "I come back in a month."

"Yes," Marin said gently. "And in the meantime, you will be alive, calm, and un-arrested. Ideally all three at once."

Rafael’s lips curved, faint and sharp and tired.

"I will attempt to behave like a responsible incubator of the future."

Marin snorted. "Try ’parent.’ It has better long-term implications."