Page 35 of Dragon's Captive

The revelation stuns me into momentary silence. Not just the content—though learning the seemingly invincible Primes face existential threats is certainly shocking—but the fact that he's sharing it with me at all. This isn't information a commander shares with a captive. It's vulnerability revealed to... what? An ally? A mate?

"Why are you telling me this?" I finally ask, barely above a whisper.

His gaze meets mine directly, golden eyes reflecting the chamber's subdued lighting. "Because you asked. And because you deserve to understand the context of your situation."

"Most captors don't concern themselves with their prisoners' understanding," I point out, unable to suppress the edge in my voice despite the strange intimacy developing between us.

"Most captives aren't nurturing the continuation of a bloodline," he counters, one hand resting lightly against my barely-rounded abdomen. The gesture feels simultaneously possessive and reverent. "You are not merely prisoner, Clara. You never have been."

"Then what am I?" The question emerges raw, honest, stripped of defensive layers I've maintained since capture.

His answer comes with equal candor. "The future of my line. The vessel of my continuation. And increasingly... something I lack adequate terminology to define."

The admission hangs between us, weightier than any claiming, any physical possession. Acknowledgment that whatever exists between us has evolved beyond simplistic categories of captor and captive, of alpha and omega, of monster and human.

"I don't know how to be that," I confess, surprised by my own honesty. "Any of those things."

"I don't know how to have them," he responds, the vulnerability in his voice more jarring than any display of dominance. "Dragons exist solitary by nature. Territorial. We claim, we breed, we separate. This—" his gesture encompasses the medical chamber, our current situation, perhaps our entire complicated relationship "—this is unexplored territory for my kind as well."

Something fundamental shifts in that moment—not a sudden transformation but quiet recognition of change already underway. For the first time, we communicate not as enemies forced together by biology and Conquest law, but as two beings confronting a shared challenge, navigating uncharted waters with only each other as reference.

When we return to Drake's Peak the following day, the fortress feels simultaneously familiar and strange, as if viewed through altered perception. My quarters remain luxurious, but the nursery preparations now register as more than ownership markers. The guards at my door appear less like jailers and more like sentinels. Even the mountain itself feels different—less prison, more sanctuary.

That night, when Kairyx enters my chambers, the air between us simmers with something electric and unfamiliar. My pulse quickens stupidly when he appears—a thoroughlyridiculous reaction having nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how his golden eyes fix on me as though I'm the only thing worth seeing in this entire fortress of stone and secrets.

For once, my body and mind aren't contradicting each other. They're in perfect, terrifying alignment—I want him. Not from heat. Not from biology. Just because.

"Clara," he says, and heaven help me, the way my name resonates from his throat raises goosebumps across my skin. When did that happen? When did his voice transform from something that sent ice down my spine to something that pools heat low in my belly?

I rise from where I've been pretending to read by the fire, the book forgotten as he approaches with that lethal fluidity that once terrified me but now triggers something entirely different deep inside. His scales capture the firelight, obsidian shimmering with amber highlights that make him appear carved from living flame.

"Your scent..." he draws a deep breath, nostrils flaring, "has changed tonight."

"Changed how?" My voice emerges huskier than intended, betraying anticipation I'd normally conceal.

He answers not with words but action. His palm cups my face with startling delicacy, thumb tracing my lower lip as though I'm something precious rather than possessed. When he lowers his mouth to mine, I don't submit passively as before—I rise to meet him, parting my lips, my tongue darting forward to taste him first.

He freezes momentarily, genuine surprise flickering across his scaled features. Then a growl reverberates through him, something primal and pleased that I feel more than hear. His kiss transforms from expected dominance into somethingexploratory, almost reverent, as if my active participation has unlocked something new between us.

He tastes of cinnamon and smoke and something metallic that should seem foreign but has become strangely familiar. His tongue moves against mine—hotter than human, slightly textured, creating sensations that send electricity racing down my spine.

My hands, previously trained for passivity, suddenly develop independent will. They reach up to trace the sharp angle of his jawline, fingers mapping the transition from smoother skin to scaled texture. The obsidian plates feel warm and unexpectedly alive beneath my touch, shifting subtly like water disturbed by wind.

"You're beautiful," I whisper against his mouth, the words escaping before my rational mind can censor them. And it's true—when did the alien features I once found horrifying transform into something captivating? The defined cheekbones, the vertical-pupiled eyes, the scales that reflect light in impossible ways—all combine into something magnificent rather than monstrous.

He pulls back just enough to study my face, pupils dilating until gold is nearly consumed by black. "Such words from my fierce little librarian," he murmurs, voice dropped to a register that resonates through my bones. "Who once looked at me with nothing but hatred."

"I still hate you sometimes," I admit, because honesty feels essential here, now, between us. "But I also—" I can't complete the thought, lacking vocabulary for the complicated tangle of emotions he evokes.

"Show me," he challenges, something vulnerable flickering beneath the dominance in his voice. "Show me what exists beyond the hatred."

So I do. My fingers trace the patterns adorning his shoulders, following their whorls downward to where they disappear beneath clothing. I tug at the fabric impatiently, wanting—needing—to see more of him, to explore what I've only experienced through lenses of fear or biological imperative.

His laugh warms me from within as he removes his garments with efficient movements. The sight still steals my breath—the broad expanse of his chest, the scales covering his shoulders and spine while leaving his torso a landscape of defined muscle, the twin ridged lengths already emerging from their sheath between powerful thighs.

"Your turn," he says, clawed hands moving toward my nightgown. "Let me see what's mine."

The possessive words should anger me. Instead, they send fresh heat flooding my core, wetness gathering between my thighs in response having nothing to do with omega biology and everything to do with genuine desire.

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