Page 11 of Dragon's Captive

A flash of something—amusement? pity?—crosses her face. "Drake's Peak houses approximately fifty dragons at any given time, plus human staff. The Commander's personal guard numbers twelve, all battle-trained and loyal to death. There are seven major entrances, all requiring flight to access, plus supply routes that involve climbing equipment and specialized knowledge of the mountain's framework." She pauses, letting the information sink in. "This is not a prison you can escape, Clara. It's a fortress designed by beings who can literally reshape stone with flame and claw."

Her frankness is almost refreshing. No false comfort, no platitudes. Just the stark reality of my situation.

"Human staff must have ways to move about," I press, taking a small bite of bread to appear cooperative. "Service tunnels, stairs..."

"All monitored," she cuts me off. "And leading nowhere but further into the mountain or to sheer drops outside." She sighs, something like genuine compassion entering her voice. "I understand your desperation. I felt it too, once. But the mountain is virtually impenetrable, with access routes requiring flight or climbing skills beyond human capability. Even if you somehow managed to leave this room, you'd find no path to freedom."

I bombard her with more questions anyway—about guard rotations, about the fortress layout, about Kairyx's daily routine. She answers some, deflects others, but the picture emergingconfirms my worst fears. This place was designed by a strategic military mind specifically to be unassailable by human forces. My chances of escape are effectively zero.

"Is there anything else you require?" she asks when I finally fall silent, defeated by the impossible mathematics of my situation.

I glance at the stone cup, still untouched. "What exactly will these do to me?"

Her expression softens marginally. "They target the synthetic compounds in suppressants, breaking them down for elimination. The process takes approximately three days. The first day brings fever and chills as your system rebalances. The second intensifies as your omega biology reasserts itself. By the third..." She hesitates. "By the third, your natural cycle will begin."

Heat. She means heat. After a decade of chemical suppression, my omega nature will come roaring back with vengeance, leaving me vulnerable to claiming in the most fundamental way possible.

"Will it hurt?" The question escapes before I can stop it, childlike in its simplicity.

Elara's eyes meet mine directly for the first time. "Yes," she says simply. "But fighting it hurts more."

After she leaves, I stare at the cup for a long time, its contents now cold. I could refuse. I could force them to physically restrain me, to pour the herbs down my throat against my will. It would change nothing about the outcome, but it would be resistance, however futile.

In the end, practicality wins over symbolic defiance. I need my strength for battles that might actually matter. With a silent curse, I down the bitter liquid in one continuous swallow, gagging slightly at the aftertaste—earthy and sharp, with lingering notes of something metallic.

The effect isn't immediate, but within an hour, warmth begins to bloom in my chest, spreading outward to my limbs with languid inevitability. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive where fabric brushes against it. The room's temperature, previously comfortable, now seems stifling. I pace restlessly, trying to outrun the changes happening inside my body.

As twilight deepens outside, transforming the mountain vista into silhouettes against a violet sky, the real discomfort begins. First as muscle aches, then as waves of alternating heat and cold that have me shedding layers one moment and huddling beneath blankets the next. My heart races without provocation, then slows to a sluggish beat that makes me dizzy when I stand.

This is just the beginning, I realize with growing dread. Just the first chemical bonds breaking, the first barriers falling between my constructed identity and the omega biology I've denied for a decade.

Darkness has fully claimed the sky when the door opens again. Kairyx's massive form blocks the entrance completely, his silhouette unmistakable even in the dimness. He's changed from the tunic he wore earlier into something that resembles a dressing gown, though the term feels inadequate for the garment. Made from some dark, shimmering material, it drapes over his scaled shoulders and falls open at the chest, revealing more of the obsidian scales that pattern his torso in mesmerizing arrangements.

He studies me from the doorway, the gold in his eyes luminous in the firelit room. I realize I must look a wreck—hair disheveled from restless movement, clothes rumpled, skin flushed with the first stages of withdrawal.

"You took the herbs," he observes, satisfaction evident in his deep voice. "Wise choice."

"Go to hell," I mutter, but the venom I intend is diluted by the tremor in my voice.

He moves further into the room, each step deliberate, predatory. The fire's light plays across his scales, creating ripples of color that dance hypnotically across the polished surfaces. Despite my best efforts, my eyes follow the patterns, drawn to the alien beauty of his inhuman form. The suppressants are already failing enough that my omega biology responds to his alpha presence with unwanted awareness, my nostrils flaring slightly to catch his scent—smoke and cinnamon and hot metal.

"Your heat will begin soon," he says, studying the flush spreading across my skin with clinical interest. "Once your artificial chemicals fade, we'll see your true nature emerge."

"My true nature is exactly what you see now," I insist, wrapping arms around myself as another chill racks my frame. "The rest is just biology, not identity."

Something like amusement curves his mouth. "Such human thinking, to imagine the mind and body are separate entities." His tongue flicks out slightly, tasting my changing scent in the air—a gesture entirely draconic, unnerving in its alienness. "You'll learn. Your omega nature isn't something apart from you—it is you, the most fundamental truth of your being."

"You know nothing about me," I spit back, anger temporarily overshadowing discomfort.

"I know your body is already responding to my presence," he counters, moving closer still. "I can smell it—the first hints of omega sweetness breaking through chemical barriers. Subtle now, but growing stronger by the hour."

Humiliation burns through me, hot and bitter. Because he's right—beneath the misery of withdrawal, my treacherous body is already preparing for what comes next. The slick gathering between my thighs has nothing to do with choice and everything to do with biological imperative responding to the powerful alpha before me.

"I'll return when you're ready," he says, the words both promise and threat. "Fighting your biology only makes the eventual surrender more painful."

He leaves without touching me, which somehow feels more ominous than any physical claim might have been. The click of the door closing behind him sounds like countdown, like time slipping away.

His words linger after he's gone, echoing in my mind as I curl on the bed, arms wrapped tightly around myself as another wave of withdrawal wracks my body. Fighting only makes surrender more painful. As if surrender itself isn't painful enough.

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