Page 4 of Dragon's Captive

The ground shakes with the impact of landing, a seismic announcement of power that needs no interpretation. Books rattle on their shelves; the chandelier in the main reading room sways dangerously. Outside, I hear the collective gasp of the gathered townspeople.

Thirty seconds later, the heavy oak doors of the library swing open with a dramatic force that sends them crashing against the walls. And there, silhouetted against the morning light, stands Commander Kairyx Emberscale.

My first thought, ridiculous in its inadequacy: He's bigger than I remembered.

Nearly seven feet of solid muscle and scaled power fills the doorway, shoulders so broad they nearly brush both sides of the frame. Obsidian scales cover his shoulders and run down his spine, visible where they emerge from the formal military-style jacket that does nothing to soften his inhuman nature. Instead, the black uniform with its silver insignia of rank only emphasizes the predator wearing it—civilization as the thinnest veneer over something ancient and lethal.

His face might almost pass for human at a distance—if humans had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and jawlines that could have been carved from granite. Up close, the illusion shatters completely. His skin has a subtle texture to it, not quite scaled but definitely not mammalian. His ears sweep back into slight points, and from his forehead curve two impressive horns, their surface marked with subtle ridges that I know, from my contraband research, indicate his age and status.

But it's his eyes that freeze the breath in my lungs. Golden, literally glowing with internal light, with vertical pupils that dilate and contract as they sweep the room with predatory assessment. Dragon's eyes in a face that's trying to accommodate human interaction without actually becoming human.

He steps inside, each movement controlled power, followed by two smaller dragons in similar uniforms—smaller being entirely relative, as both still tower over any human in town. Guards, or perhaps administrative aides. Behind them comes ahuman man in the gray uniform of a territorial administrator, clutching a tablet and looking appropriately subservient.

Commander Emberscale stops in the center of the main room, where the morning light from the high windows creates a natural spotlight. Whether by design or instinct, he positions himself perfectly within it, the light gleaming off his scales and the polished silver insignia at his collar.

"Who is in charge of this facility?" His voice rumbles through the space like distant thunder, deep enough that I feel it in my chest as much as hear it with my ears.

Self-preservation wars with responsibility. For one shameful second, I consider pushing Elijah forward, sacrificing him to that golden gaze. But I am the head librarian. This is my domain, the only place in this new world where I have any semblance of authority or purpose.

"I am, Commander." I step forward, forcing myself to move with calm precision rather than the cringing deference he likely expects. "Clara Dawson, head archivist and librarian."

Those golden eyes lock onto me, and the world narrows to the space between us. I feel the weight of his attention like a physical pressure, a predator's assessment of potential prey. Keep breathing. Don't show fear. Betas aren't afraid; they're respectful.

"You've prepared for this inspection?" The question is perfunctory; the real communication happens in the way he's studying me, head tilted slightly to one side.

"Yes, Commander. We received your notice yesterday and have ensured all collections are accessible for your review." I'm impressed by the steadiness of my voice, given that my internal organs seem to be attempting a complex gymnastics routine.

"Good." He turns to the human administrator. "Wait outside with the guards. I prefer to conduct inspections without distraction."

The man bows low—too low, sweat beading visibly on his forehead—and backs toward the door. The dragon guards follow with considerably more dignity. The doors close with a resounding thud that feels horribly final.

"You as well, boy," Commander Emberscale says to Elijah, who looks like he might faint from relief at being dismissed. "I wish to speak with the head librarian alone."

Elijah practically sprints for the side door, leaving me abandoned in the sudden vast emptiness of the main reading room. Alone with a dragon alpha who could tear me apart with casual ease, whose very presence makes the air feel thick and superheated.

"Show me your archives," Commander Emberscale instructs, moving toward me with that predatory grace that makes human movement seem clumsy by comparison. "I have particular interest in your pre-Conquest historical texts."

Heat radiates from him as he draws near, the natural elevated temperature of dragon shifters turning the comfortable library into something approaching a sauna. I fight the instinct to step back, to maintain distance. Betas wouldn't fear proximity; they'd just be professionally respectful.

"This way, Commander." I gesture toward the main collection, then lead the way, painfully aware of his massive presence behind me. I can feel his gaze on my back like a physical touch, raising the fine hairs on my neck.

Focus on the job. Be the librarian. Show him the damn books and get him out.

"Our pre-Conquest collection survived relatively intact," I explain as we move between the towering shelves. "The settlement's location in the mountains protected it from the worst of the initial conflict, and once the Draconic Imperium established control, preservation orders were implemented."

"Fortunate." The single word contains multitudes—approval, certainly, but also something possessive. These books, this knowledge, belongs to him now, just as the town does, just as I would if my secret were discovered.

I guide him through the main collection with professional detachment, maintaining maximum distance while still appearing helpful. Each section I show him is one step closer to the end of this inspection, one step closer to safety. His questions are surprisingly specific, demonstrating a knowledge of human history that unnerves me further. This is not the mindless destroyer from resistance propaganda; this is something more dangerous—intelligence paired with overwhelming power.

His massive presence makes the library feel suddenly cramped, shelves that have always seemed spacious now crowded by his bulk. As we move deeper into the stacks, the air grows warmer still, stifling with his draconic heat and the unmistakable alpha scent that even my dulled senses can detect—smoke and hot metal, something like cinnamon layered over raw power.

I breathe through my mouth to minimize exposure to that scent, but it's a mistake. Tasting his presence in the air is somehow worse, more intimate, sending an unwelcome pulse of heat through my core. I silently curse my traitorous body, doubling down on my beta librarian persona.

We reach the rare books section, and I feel a moment of relief. Almost done. Almost safe. Just show him the oldest materials, answer his questions, and then he'll leave.

I unlock the heavy door with hands I refuse to allow to tremble. "Our most valuable artifacts are preserved in climate-controlled conditions," I explain, pushing the door open. "We maintain temperature and humidity levels specifically calibrated for materials of this age."

He follows me into the smaller room, and the space instantly shrinks to claustrophobic dimensions. The rare book room has always been my sanctuary, my hiding place. Now it feels like a trap, with only one exit and seven feet of scaled predator between me and escape.

---