Page 30 of Dragon's Captive

It would be easier if this attention came only as alpha commands—orders I could resent cleanly, without complications. Instead, it's tangled with something much more dangerous: intellectual engagement.

"I'd like your opinion on this territory proposal," he says one evening, showing me a scroll with policy changes for human settlements in the western part of his domain. "The farming adjustments seem logical, but I'm concerned about the timeline."

The document is thoughtful, complex, and nothing like the harsh rules I expected from dragon leadership. It outlinessustainable resource management that actually improves conditions for human settlements while maintaining dragon authority. Despite my determination to stay emotionally distant from all aspects of my captivity, I find myself drawn in.

"The timeline is too aggressive," I finally say, pointing to specific sections. "Human farming systems need more transition time between growing seasons. If you push too quickly, you'll create food shortages that will undermine the whole program."

Instead of dismissing my concerns or getting offended at my criticism, Kairyx listens with complete attention. His massive form stays perfectly still as I explain the practical realities of human farming—knowledge I gained through years of resistance work, though I carefully present it as common human understanding.

"How would you adjust the implementation?" he asks, his tone genuine rather than condescending.

The question catches me off-guard. No Prime has ever asked for my input on governance matters. The idea that this territorial commander—this apex predator—would consider human perspective valuable enough to ask for contradicts everything I thought I knew about the new world order.

Even more unsettling is how thoroughly I find myself engaged in the discussion. For hours, we debate points of resource allocation, farming techniques, and settlement management. The conversation flows with an ease that would be exciting under different circumstances—if we were colleagues rather than captor and captive, if my contributions weren't shadowed by the claiming bite on my neck and the hybrid offspring in my womb.

This strange partnership—intellectual engagement alongside physical possession—creates a mental split I struggle to make sense of. How can I maintain proper hatred for my captorwhile simultaneously connecting with his mind in ways that feel almost like respect?

Even more confusing is how our physical relationship shifts after the pregnancy confirmation.

I expected him to lose interest in claiming me once his seed had taken root. Instead, he continues to visit my bed nightly, though his approach changes in subtle but important ways.

The seventh night after learning of my pregnancy, I'm arranging newly acquired manuscripts when his scent reaches me before he does—smoke and cinnamon with an undercurrent of something metallic. My body responds instantly, warmth flooding my core, nipples tightening beneath my thin nightgown. Without heat to blame, this reaction feels like betrayal of a different sort.

When the door opens, Kairyx fills the frame with his massive presence. He's shed the formal clothes of territorial commander, wearing only loose pants that don't hide the evidence of his arousal. Scales ripple across his chest and shoulders, catching the firelight with hypnotic patterns.

"Clara," he says, my name a rumbling caress that sends involuntary shivers down my spine.

I should resist. Should turn away. Should at least pretend reluctance. Instead, I find myself setting aside the manuscripts with careful precision, my heart already speeding up in anticipation.

"The twins need rest," he continues, approaching with that predatory grace that somehow seems more controlled now, more deliberate. "But your body still needs claiming. The hormone balance benefits baby development."

Of course he'd frame it that way—as necessity rather than desire, as physical requirement rather than hunger. It gives us both the fiction that this is still about biology rather than something far more complicated.

"Tell me if anything hurts," he instructs as he reaches the bedside, his massive body hovering over mine with unusual restraint. "Your body needs different care now."

His clawed hand cups my cheek with surprising gentleness, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a gesture that feels more intimate than it should. When his mouth covers mine, the kiss isn't the dominating claiming of before but something heated and careful, his tongue seeking rather than demanding entrance.

I part my lips, accepting him with an eagerness that would horrify my former self. His taste—smoky cinnamon with that alien undertone unique to dragons—floods my senses, familiar now where once it felt terrifying.

His hands move to my nightgown, claws carefully catching the delicate fabric to lift it over my head. The cool air raises goosebumps on my exposed skin, heightening sensitivity already amplified by pregnancy hormones. When his palms cover my breasts, I gasp at the contact, the heat of his scales creating exquisite friction against my nipples.

"More sensitive now," he observes, golden eyes tracking my reaction as his thumbs circle the hardened peaks with deliberate pressure. "Your body prepares for nursing."

The reminder of my condition should dampen arousal. Instead, it triggers another rush of wetness between my thighs, my omega biology responding to his recognition of fertility with automatic enthusiasm.

"You don't need to narrate the process," I manage, my attempt at sharpness undermined by my breathless voice.

His rumbling laugh vibrates through his chest and into mine where our bodies press together. "Maybe I enjoy your body's honesty, little librarian. Even when your words resist, your scent tells me everything."

To prove his point, he slides one hand between my thighs, finding me embarrassingly wet, ready for him without any realpreparation. His rumble of approval sends another wave of heat through me as two clawed fingers slip inside with careful precision.

"Already so wet for me," he murmurs against my throat, teeth grazing the claiming mark at the junction of my neck and shoulder. The contact sends electricity racing through my nerves, making me arch against him with a sound I can't suppress. "So responsive without heat driving you."

"It's just—biology," I insist, the words breaking as his fingers curl to find that spot inside me that makes coherent thought impossible. "Pregnancy hormones."

"Is it?" he challenges, adding a third finger, stretching me with deliberate care that feels more overwhelming than his previous claiming intensity ever was. "Then why does your pulse quicken when I enter your chambers? Why do your pupils widen when I remove my clothing? Why—" his thumb circles my sensitive bud with maddening precision "—do you get wetter when I praise you?"

As if to demonstrate, he continues, "Such a perfect omega, taking my fingers so beautifully. Imagine how stunning you'll look soon, rounded with my young, claimed and marked as mine."

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