Page 15 of Dragon's Captive

I curl into myself on the window seat, arms wrapped around my middle as if I could somehow hold my fragmenting identity together through sheer physical force. The mountain spreads before me, vast and indifferent to my plight, while inside me, omega biology systematically dismantles every defense I've built.

By nightfall, I will no longer be Clara Dawson, beta librarian, resistance sympathizer, independent woman. I will be reduced to the most primal biological imperative—an omega in heat, existing solely to be claimed.

And there's absolutely nothing I can do to stop it.

CHAPTER 7

BREAKING POINT

It begins with a jolt.

Not metaphorically—an actual electric sensation crackling across my skin. I snap awake in the pre-dawn darkness, every nerve ending suddenly, painfully alive. For one disoriented heartbeat, I wonder if lightning has struck nearby, if perhaps a storm has broken over the mountain during my sleep.

Then the second surge hits, and understanding floods me with terrible clarity: this isn't weather. This is biology. This is what I've chemically suppressed for a decade. This is heat.

Oh god.

The need rips through me like a wildfire, obliterating reason with terrifying efficiency. My flesh becomes a landscape of raw nerve endings that cry out for contact, for pressure, for anything to ease the maddening sensation building beneath the surface. It's nothing like the withdrawal fever—that was illness, discomfort, something I could endure through sheer stubborn will.

This is different. This is hunger in its most primal form.

I kick away the silk sheets that now feel like rough sandpaper against my hypersensitive skin. The cool morning air provides momentary relief, but within heartbeats, even thatgentle touch becomes simultaneously too much and not enough—contradictions that somehow make perfect sense to my heat-addled mind.

Wetness floods between my thighs, soaking through the thin nightgown Elara left for me, the unmistakable scent of omega arousal permeating the chamber. My inner walls clench painfully around emptiness, creating a void so acute it borders on agony. My body desperately prepares itself for what evolution designed it to want, regardless of my conscious rejection.

It's overwhelming. Too intense. How does anyone survive this?

I curl into myself, arms wrapped tightly around my middle as if I could somehow contain the inferno building inside. But the pressure of my own arms against my breasts sends another bolt of unwanted pleasure-pain through me, tearing a gasp from my throat as my back arches involuntarily.

Is this what I've been hiding from? This devastating vulnerability? This complete loss of self to sensation? No wonder the Primes targeted omegas first during the Conquest—we're walking vulnerabilities, biological liabilities to our own species.

Another wave crashes over me, stronger than before. My hips buck involuntarily, seeking friction against the tangled sheets. The movement provides no relief, only intensifies the desperate need for something—someone—to fill the aching emptiness.

No. I refuse. I am more than biology. I am more than omega.

The mantra rings hollow even in my own mind, like reciting poetry while plummeting from a cliff—technically possible but utterly meaningless against the inevitable impact.

I stagger to the bathing chamber on unsteady legs, discarding the soaked nightgown as I go. Cold water. That's what I need. Something to shock my system, to cool the raging heat coursing through my veins. I turn the tap to its coldest setting and stepbeneath the spray, my breath hitching sharply as it hits my fever-flushed skin.

The relief lasts approximately ten seconds before my traitorous body adapts, the cold registering as just another type of stimulation against nerve endings now wired for a single purpose. I slam my fist against the tiled wall in frustration, the physical pain momentarily cutting through the fog of need.

This isn't working. Nothing will work except what my body is screaming for. Distantly, I recognize the hormonal cascade happening inside me—estrogen spiking to unprecedented levels, endorphins flooding my system, every chemical messenger conspiring to ensure I fulfill my biological imperative.

I shut off the water and stumble back to the bedroom, hair dripping, skin flushed and burning. The nightgown is ruined, so I frantically search the wardrobe, desperate for anything that might feel tolerable against my hypersensitive skin. But every fabric I touch feels wrong—too rough, too confining, too much.

In the end, I wrap myself in a silk robe, the material gliding over my wet skin with minimal friction. Even this light touch sends tremors cascading through me, my nipples hardening painfully against the delicate fabric. I pace the chamber like a caged animal, moving for the sake of movement, as if physical activity might somehow disperse the need coiling inside me.

It doesn't. Nothing helps. Nothing will help except?—

No. I won't even think his name. I won't give him that power.

Another wave hits, stronger than before. My knees buckle beneath me and I collapse onto the bed, a pathetic whimper escaping before I can swallow it back. The sound horrifies me—I don't whimper, I don't beg, I don't surrender.

Except apparently I do now, because more sounds follow, small desperate noises I can't control. The wetness between my thighs has become a humiliating flood, my body preparing itself with enthusiasm for a claiming I still mentally reject.

My fingers slip beneath the robe of their own accord, finding my swollen clit with desperate precision. The first touch sends a shock wave of pleasure so intense it borders on pain, tearing a cry from my throat. I rub frantically, seeking relief, but it's like trying to extinguish a forest fire with a teardrop—woefully inadequate against the scale of the conflagration.

My fingers slide lower, seeking to fill the aching emptiness. One, then two, then three—and still not enough, not nearly enough to satisfy what my body demands. The momentary relief from self-stimulation fades almost instantly, leaving me more desperate than before, the emptiness more acute for having been teased with insufficient fullness.

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