Page 14 of Dragon's Captive

After he's gone, I curl into myself, arms wrapped tightly around my middle as if I could physically hold my fragmentedself together. My fevered mind registers the contradiction—monstrous captor providing comfort to his prisoner—before another wave of withdrawal drags me back into delirium.

The third day brings a different kind of hell. The violent fever breaks around dawn, leaving me drenched in sweat but suddenly, terrifyingly lucid. This isn't recovery, though. This is transition—the purging nearly complete, my body preparing for what comes next.

My senses have sharpened beyond anything I've experienced in a decade. I can smell everything—the mountain stone, the beeswax in the candles, the lingering traces of Elara's herbal sachets. Colors appear more vivid, sounds more distinct. When Elara brings breakfast, the scent of fresh bread nearly brings tears to my eyes with its complexity and richness.

"The worst of the purging is over," she confirms, watching me pick at food that tastes too intense to be comfortable. "How do you feel?"

How do I feel? Like a stranger in my own skin. Like something is awakening inside me that I've kept drugged and dormant for ten years. Like my body is becoming a precision instrument calibrated for a single purpose I've spent my adult life rejecting.

"Different," is all I say.

She nods, understanding more than I've voiced. "The Commander will visit this afternoon. There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe. I suggest you bathe and prepare yourself."

Prepare myself. As if one can prepare for biological imprisonment. As if I could somehow make myself ready to surrender my body's autonomy to a monster who sees me as nothing but a vessel for his offspring.

Still, the idea of washing away days of fever-sweat holds undeniable appeal. I drag myself to the bathing chamber on shaky legs, each step sending new sensations throughhypersensitive nerve endings. The cool stone beneath my feet, the silk of the robe against my skin, the air currents as I move—everything registers with unnecessary intensity.

The bath proves simultaneously torturous and blissful. Water that would normally feel pleasantly warm now borders on overwhelming, each droplet distinct against skin that's become a landscape of pure sensation. I scrub away days of illness, watching the suds swirl away along with the last chemical traces of the person I've pretended to be for a decade.

As I rise from the water, I catch my reflection in the polished metal mirror and freeze in shocked recognition. The woman staring back at me is simultaneously stranger and more familiar than the beta librarian I've presented to the world.

My eyes seem larger, brighter, the hazel irises rimmed with gold that wasn't there before. My lips appear fuller, cheeks flushed with color that isn't fever but something else—the visual markers of omega biology expressing itself after years of suppression. Even my body has subtly changed, curves more pronounced, skin literally glowing with health despite days of illness.

This is what I've hidden. This is what I've denied. This is what suppressants have masked from the world and from myself.

I dress in the clothing Elara left—simple but fine, a dress of deep blue that feels almost obscenely soft against my sensitized skin. The garment is cut to flatter rather than conceal, emphasizing the omega characteristics I've hidden for so long. I hate it. I hate how right it feels.

When Kairyx arrives that afternoon, I'm sitting by the balcony, one of his books open in my lap though I haven't managed to focus on the words. The mountain air carries his scent to me before the door opens—smoke and cinnamon and something metallic, unmistakably alpha, unmistakably him.

My body responds instantly, a rush of heat flooding my core, slick gathering between my thighs in Pavlovian preparation. I grip the book hard enough that my knuckles turn white, fighting for control that seems increasingly elusive.

He fills the doorway completely, taking in my changed appearance with visible satisfaction. The scales across his shoulders seem to gleam more vibrantly than before, catching the light with iridescent highlights that draw my unwilling gaze.

"The transformation is nearly complete," he says, moving into the room with predatory grace. "Your natural scent is..." He inhales deeply, eyes momentarily closing in what looks disturbingly like pleasure. "Remarkable. Complex. Worth the wait."

I should respond with defiance, with the anger that still burns beneath this new biological awareness. Instead, I find myself speechless, my body reacting to his proximity in ways my mind cannot control. My heart races, pupils dilate, skin flushes—all the involuntary responses of an omega in the presence of a compatible alpha.

"This isn't me," I finally manage, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.

"It is exactly you," he counters, moving closer still. "For the first time since I found you, I'm meeting the real Clara Dawson, not the chemical construction you've hidden behind."

He reaches out, one clawed finger tracing the air near my cheek without actually touching—testing my reaction, I realize distantly. Even this non-contact sends shivers cascading through me, my neck tilting unconsciously to expose my scent gland in omega submission.

I jerk away, horrified by my body's automatic response. "Don't touch me."

"I don't need to," he says, satisfaction evident in his deep voice. "Not yet. Your heat is hours away, not days as I originally estimated. By nightfall, you'll be begging for my touch."

The casual certainty in his voice triggers something beyond fear, beyond anger—a bone-deep knowledge that he's right, that the biological imperative currently rewriting my nervous system will indeed reduce me to begging before this is over.

"I would rather die," I tell him, meaning every syllable despite the evidence my body presents to the contrary.

Kairyx's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his golden eyes—a brief flicker that might be respect before it's subsumed again by predatory patience.

"Many have said that," he acknowledges, moving back toward the door. "None have meant it once their heat fully manifests." He pauses at the threshold, scales rippling slightly across his shoulders—a physical tell of his own biological response to my emerging omega scent. "Rest while you can, Clara. Tonight will change everything."

The door closes behind him with quiet finality, leaving me alone with the terrifying awareness of my body's continuing transformation. The withdrawal is complete; what comes next is something I've successfully avoided for ten years.

Heat. Claiming. Surrender.

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