Page 23 of Dragon's Captive

The deep voice startles me. Kairyx stands in the doorway, his massive frame somehow less intimidating after heat than during it. He's fully dressed again, his commander's uniform making him look almost civilized, if you could ignore the obsidian scales visible at his collar and wrists.

I pull the sheet higher, a pointless attempt at modesty after everything he's done to me, everything I've begged him to do. "Barely," I manage, my voice scratchy from days of crying out his name.

He approaches cautiously, as if I might bolt at any moment. Which is ridiculous. Where would I go? How would I escape a mountain fortress accessible only by flight? Still, the care in his movements suggests a consideration I didn't expect.

"The first heat after suppressant use hits especially hard," he says, sitting in a chair near the bed rather than joining me on it. Another unexpected courtesy. "Your body was making up for years of chemical interference."

"Spare me the biology lesson," I croak, pushing myself upright despite my protesting muscles. "I know how it works."

His golden eyes narrow slightly at my tone, but he doesn't scold me. Another surprise. During heat, any hint of defiance met with dominant displays that reduced me to willing submission within minutes. Now, he simply watches me with something like... curiosity?

"You're angry," he observes, as if commenting on the weather.

A laugh escapes me, bitter and sharp. "What gave it away? The fact that you kidnapped me? Forced my heat? Claimed me against my will?"

"You weren't unwilling by the end," he counters, but without the smugness I expected. It's a simple statement of fact, not mockery, which somehow makes it worse. Because he's right, and we both know it.

By the third day, I was arching into his touch without prompting. By the fourth, I was begging for his knot with a desperation that makes me cringe now. My body's betrayal was complete and undeniable, recorded in every mark I now bear.

"Biology isn't consent," I snap, the argument sounding hollow even to me after my enthusiastic participation.

Kairyx tilts his head, studying me with those unnerving golden eyes. "True," he concedes, surprising me again. "But it is reality. Your omega nature is as much a part of you as your mind, Clara. Fighting that connection only extends your adjustment period."

"Is that what this is? An 'adjustment period'? Like I'm settling into a new apartment, not being held captive by a creature who plans to use me as a breeding vessel?"

My words are deliberately cutting, chosen to provoke anger that would justify my hatred. Instead, he sighs—a surprisingly human sound from such an inhuman being.

"Your perspective makes sense, given your limited experience with dragon culture," he says, rising with fluid grace that makes my breath catch despite myself. "But there's more to this claiming than your human resistance stories would have you believe."

Before I can fire back a suitably biting response, he moves to the door. "I'll send Elara with food. You need to recover your strength." He pauses, then adds, "When you feel up to it, I have something to show you."

The door closes softly behind him, leaving me alone with my confusion and the fact that he didn't act at all as I expected. Where was the gloating? The dominant alpha asserting his rights? The smugness I'd prepared to face with stubborn defiance?

Elara arrives shortly with a tray loaded with more food than I could possibly eat—eggs, fruit, bread still warm from the oven, a pot of what smells like genuine coffee rather than the fake substitute most human settlements make do with since the Conquest. The luxury feels jarring, a reminder that dragons hoard quality in all forms, not just gold.

"The Commander suggests a bath afterward," she says, her tone neutral as always. "He thought you might appreciate... privacy... for that."

Another unexpected consideration. I eye her suspiciously, searching for the trap behind this apparent thoughtfulness. "Why is he being... accommodating?"

Elara's expression reveals nothing, but something flickers in her eyes—amusement, perhaps, or pity. "Despite what resistance propaganda claims, claimed omegas aren't prisoners here. You're valuable. Rare. Especially those capable of carrying dragon young."

The reminder chills me. That's what all this is about, ultimately. My fertility. My ability to grow his offspring. The possibility sits heavily in my stomach, souring my appetite despite the tempting aroma of real coffee.

"And if I don't conceive?" I ask, unable to stop myself.

"Then he'll try again during your next heat," she says simply. "The Commander is... patient. Unlike some."

The implication is clear—I could have ended up with someone worse. Much worse. It's small comfort.

The bath helps, at least physically. The hot water soothes aching muscles and washes away the lingering evidence of fourdays spent satisfying draconic rut. I take my time, scrubbing every inch of skin as if I could somehow erase the memory of his touch along with the physical traces.

Afterward, I find clothes laid out—not the revealing silks I expected, but comfortable garments in fine fabrics. Leggings, a tunic, even practical boots. Clothes for movement, not display. Another contradiction to puzzle over.

When I finally venture from my chambers—and when did I start thinking of them as mine rather than my prison?—I find Kairyx waiting in the corridor, his massive form radiating that unnatural heat that once felt unbearable but now registers as simply part of him.

"You look better," he observes, his gaze noting the color returned to my face after food and rest.

"I look like someone who's been thoroughly claimed for four days straight," I reply bluntly, refusing to soften either truth or language. Let him see I'm not some docile pet, heat-submission notwithstanding.

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