Page 13 of Dragon's Captive

The compliment, if that's what it is, makes no sense coming from my captor. Shouldn't he want more compliance, less resistance? The contradiction is almost as disorienting as the fever.

"My body is merely a chemical system," I murmur, struggling to maintain focus. "This is just...biology recalibrating. Not surrender."

His rumbling laugh vibrates through the air between us. "Your body is merely preparing for what comes next," he corrects, the words carrying absolute certainty. "The purgingremoves artificial barriers. What emerges isn't new—it's what was always there, buried beneath chemical suppression."

I want to argue, but another wave of fever crashes over me, dragging me under consciousness with ruthless efficiency. The last thing I see is Kairyx's golden eyes studying me with predatory patience—waiting, watching, knowing the inevitable outcome.

The next time awareness returns, night has fallen. The room is bathed in the orange glow of firelight, shadows dancing across stone walls like living things. My sheets have been changed, I notice distantly. Fresh fabric beneath me, cool against feverish skin.

Elara sits nearby, her weathered hands working a needle through fabric with practiced ease. The rhythmic motion of her stitching anchors me somehow, a small piece of normal humanity in this monstrous situation.

"Water," I croak, my throat so dry it feels cracked.

She's beside me instantly, helping me sit up, pressing a cup to my lips. The cool liquid is the most exquisite thing I've ever tasted, better than any wine, sweeter than any nectar. I drain it greedily, some spilling down my chin in my desperation.

"Easy," she murmurs, steadying my shaking hands. "Small sips."

Only when my thirst is somewhat quenched do I notice what she was sewing—a nightgown of pale silk, delicate and beautiful. Clothing for an omega about to enter heat. Clothing for claiming.

Panic surges through me, momentarily overriding the fever. "How long?" I demand. "How long until..."

Elara understands what I can't bring myself to say. "The Commander believes by tomorrow night. Your body is processing the herbs remarkably quickly." She wipes my face with a damp cloth, her touch impersonal yet somehow kind. "He's pleased with your progress."

Pleased with my body's betrayal, she means. Pleased that the vessel he intends to breed is preparing itself efficiently for his use. The thought should fill me with rage, but I'm too exhausted, too overwhelmed by physical sensation to muster the appropriate fury.

"Why are you helping him?" I ask again, the question that's been haunting me since I arrived.

Elara's hands pause in their ministrations. "I'm helping you," she corrects. "There's a difference. What comes will happen regardless—I merely seek to make it less traumatic."

Before I can question her further, the door opens to admit Kairyx once more. He's become a fixture of my fevered days, appearing at regular intervals to monitor my "progress." Each visit follows the same pattern—he observes, comments on the changes in my scent or coloration, sometimes asks questions I refuse to answer.

Today is different. He carries books in his massive hands, a stack of leather-bound volumes that seems incongruous with my image of a conquering monster.

"Leave us," he commands Elara, who bows and exits without question.

Terror spikes through me, sharp enough to cut through the fever-haze. Is this it? Has he decided not to wait for full heat? My heart races painfully against my ribs as he approaches, certain he can hear its frantic tempo.

But instead of reaching for me, he places the books on the bedside table with surprising gentleness.

"Your scent carries notes of intelligence beneath the fever," he states, as if this is a perfectly normal observation. "These might help occupy your mind between withdrawal waves."

I blink in confusion, trying to reconcile this gesture with everything I know about dragon alphas. The titles swim before my eyes, but I make out references to ancient history, pre-Conquest literature, and even what appears to be draconic philosophy.

"Why would you..." I begin, unable to complete the question as another wave of chills chatters my teeth.

"Intelligent breeding stock produces more viable offspring," he says, the clinical assessment a harsh reminder of my purpose here. Yet something in his tone suggests this isn't his only motivation.

He moves closer, nostrils flaring as he scents the air around me. "Your omega notes are strengthening by the hour," he observes. "The chemical taint is almost gone."

The proximity of an alpha during withdrawal is both torment and relief. His presence triggers stronger physical reactions—my pulse racing, skin flushing hotter, the embarrassing slick between my thighs increasing noticeably. Yet simultaneously, something in his pheromones soothes the worst of the symptoms, my omega biology responding to the alpha it was designed to complement.

It's this contradiction that terrifies me most—that his presence can bring relief even as it heralds my ultimate captivity. My body recognizing its biological match even as my mind rejects him completely.

"Get out," I whisper, unable to bear the confusion his presence triggers.

Surprisingly, he complies, moving toward the door with that predatory grace that makes human movement seem clumsy by comparison. At the threshold, he pauses, his eyes glinting in the firelight.

"Tomorrow," he says, the single word heavy with promise and threat combined. "Your heat will manifest fully by tomorrow night. I suggest you use these final hours of clarity wisely."

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