He woke to light. Too much of it.
The curtains were open, the air smelled like linen and polished marble, and something mechanical hummed faintly above his head like an overconfident mosquito. His first coherent thought was that whoever invented sunlight deserved jail time. His second was that if Rowan was responsible for this wake-up call, he’d personally find a way to reassign him to Antarctica.
He tried to turn, failed, and ended up halfway tangled in the couch blanket, which, now that he looked at it, was the softest thing he’d ever hated. Everything hurt. Not in the way pain usually did, but in the way being alive apparently did when your nervous system decided to reboot without pharmaceutical assistance.
The air felt different, louder. He could hear the hum of the ventilation, the faint brush of fabric against skin, and even the rhythmic tick of the clock that someone had definitely placed there to test his will to live. And the smells, God, the smells, everything was aggressive. Lemon polish. Fresh flowers. The faint burn of coffee somewhere too far to reach.
He groaned and shoved the blanket off, squinting toward movement near the window.
Rowan, of course. Tower of calm, destroyer of peace, standing there with his tablet and that irritatingly composed expression that said he’d been up since dawn being productive.
"Morning," Rowan said, in the same tone other people might use to say tax audit.
Chris rubbed his face. "It’s afternoon."
"Barely," Rowan said, not even looking up. "You’ve slept twenty-six hours."
"Impressive," Chris muttered. "I finally beat my record from college."
He shifted to sit up and instantly regretted it. The couch tilted, the world went bright around the edges, and for one lovely second he was sure gravity was a personal attack. He pressed his hand to his forehead, blinking through the pulse of sound and scent and too much everything.
Rowan was already there, pulling a chair closer, his voice lower now, soft enough that Chris could almost stand it. "Take it easy. Your body’s still adjusting."
’Adjusting. Right. That word again.’ He almost laughed. ’Adjusting from what exactly? From being half-sedated for years, from pretending not to have a body that the world wouldn’t let me own? Or from swallowing enough illegal chemistry to drown a horse?’
"Define adjusting," he muttered. "Because I’m leaning toward dying slowly but politely."
Rowan ignored the commentary with far too much composure for Chris’s tastes. "You’ve got someone coming to help."
"Fantastic. Another stranger to witness my downfall."
"She’s good," Rowan said simply, which, coming from him, was practically emotional praise. "You’ll like her."
Chris doubted that very much, but before he could protest, there was a knock at the door, two polite taps, the kind of sound that announced competence.
The woman who stepped in didn’t look like this palace’s usual brand of help. No immaculate uniform, no heavy perfume, no jewelry designed to remind you of your status. Just gray scrubs, a calm face, and eyes sharp enough to read a man in a single glance.
"Nadia Rafiq," she said quietly, as if she already knew introductions were wasted on him. "I’ll be overseeing your treatment while your system readjusts."
There it was again, readjusts, the word everyone kept throwing around like it was a gentle process and not the equivalent of having your senses beaten awake with a hammer.
Chris eyed her, head tilted. "You mean you’ll make sure I don’t die or commit homicide during the process?"
"Preferably neither," she said, unruffled. "Hydration first. Then vitals."
She had the kind of steady presence that made it difficult to maintain sarcasm. She didn’t react to the tone, the snark, or the performance. Just set a glass of water on the table in front of him, like she’d done this a thousand times before and wasn’t impressed by anyone’s suffering.
He took it, mostly out of spite, and sipped. It was cold enough to make him shiver. His throat felt raw, his tongue still bitter from sleep. "Everything tastes weird," he said, frowning at the glass like it had personally betrayed him.
"That means your receptors are working," she said.
"Thrilling."
Rowan coughed to hide a laugh. ’Traitor.’
Nadia set up her tablet, tapping through charts and quietly murmuring, "We’ll monitor your hormone balance, hydration, scent sensitivity, and heart rate for the next few days. When you feel overwhelmed, breathe through it. It will pass."
Chris stared at her. "You say that like the world isn’t screaming directly into my skull right now."
"Then we’ll make it whisper," she said calmly, and somehow it didn’t sound like a platitude.
He wanted to dislike her, truly, to find some edge to push against, but there was nothing there. No pity, nor over-softness. Just quiet professionalism wrapped in chamomile-scented authority. It unnerved him.
"Do I get a safe word?" he muttered.
"Yes," she said, dead serious. "It’s ’stop.’ Works surprisingly well when used."
Rowan was openly smirking now. Chris glared at him. "You’re enjoying this."
"A little."
"Fantastic. Everyone’s having a great time."
Nadia ignored them both. "You’ll sleep more, eat lightly, and avoid stimulation for at least a week. No strong scents. No crowds. And..." she hesitated, like she was used to people bristling at this part: "if the pheromone surges get too strong, tell me. Don’t try to suppress them. We manage it together."
"Manage," he echoed flatly. "That’s a polite word for ’watch me panic and pretend it’s fine."
"Exactly," she said, clicking something on her tablet.
He blinked. Was she agreeing with him? ’The audacity.’
A few minutes later, a patch adhered to his arm with a faint click, cool, light, and humming faintly under the skin. The small LED blinked alive. He stared at it, unimpressed. "Great. Now I’m Wi-Fi compatible."
"It monitors vitals and stress responses," Nadia said. "If it flashes red, I’ll come. If it flashes blue, you call me. If it flashes purple..."
"...I explode?" Chris asked.
She smiled faintly. "It means you’re fine."
"Sure," he muttered, eyeing the small light as if it were lying to him already.
Rowan, who’d been lingering near the door like the world’s most patient bodyguard, exhaled through his nose. "I’ll be in the staff wing for the afternoon. The king’s tied up in meetings until evening, but he asked to have dinner with you." He hesitated for a heartbeat, gaze flicking from Chris to the patch and back. "You’re not alone."
Chris raised a brow. "Is that reassurance or a threat?"
"Neither," Rowan said dryly. "Fact."
He said it the way soldiers said things that were true whether you liked them or not.
Chris looked down at the patch again, the faint purple blink steady under his skin. "Is this GPS tracked?"