Page 25 of Dragon's Captive

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, but his expression suggests otherwise. "It's just... refreshing... to see passion for something beyond survival or resistance."

The observation cuts too close to truths I'm not ready to face. I look away, focusing on the books rather than the creature who somehow appreciates them.

"We'll need proper archival materials," I say briskly, redirecting to practicalities. "Acid-free paper, conservation-grade adhesives if any bindings need repair, controlled humidity for the older volumes..."

As I list requirements, I tell myself this is merely survival strategy—compliance buying time until escape becomes possible, intellectual engagement protecting my mind while my body remains captive. But the explanation feels hollow even to me, especially when Kairyx begins questioning me about pre-Conquest literature with genuine curiosity, debating interpretations of texts I'd assumed no Prime would value.

By the time we leave the library hours later, my head spins with contradictions I can't reconcile. The creature who claimed me against my will is the same being who handles ancient bookswith careful reverence. The conqueror who enforces Prime dominance also preserves human knowledge with dedicated precision. The alpha who reduced me to begging, pleading omega submission also engages my intellect as if my thoughts have value beyond my biological function.

I don't know what to do with these contradictions. Don't know how to hate someone who defies the resistance stories I've built my understanding around. Don't know how to maintain emotional distance when he offers the one thing I've craved most during years of hiding—recognition of my mind alongside my body.

I fall asleep that night surrounded by books he's allowed me to bring to my chambers, the scent of paper and leather comforting me more effectively than any locked door or guard could. My last conscious thought is the most dangerous yet:

What if everything I thought I knew about Primes—about him—is wrong?

CHAPTER 11

FEVER DREAMS

The library gives me purpose,but it's my fever that betrays me.

It starts with a slight headache, an irritating throb behind my eyes that I dismiss as eyestrain from cataloging volumes with faded print. By evening, my joints ache, my skin feels too tight, and swallowing becomes an exercise in misery. The library's thick stone walls, once comforting, suddenly feel like they're closing in around me. Books slip from my trembling fingers.

"You're ill," Kairyx observes, his golden eyes narrowing as he watches me fumble with a leather-bound astronomy text from the pre-Conquest era.

"I'm fine," I insist, even as a violent shiver races up my spine, contradicting my words with terrible timing.

The back of his scaled hand presses against my forehead before I can retreat, and I flinch at the contact—not from the alien texture of his scales, but from how wonderfully cool they feel against my burning skin. For a dragon whose natural body temperature runs hot enough to ignite flame, to feel cool to my touch means only one thing.

"You have a fever," he says, voice dropping to a concerned rumble. "Not heat. Actual illness."

I want to deny it, to maintain the fragile independence I've scraped together since my heat ended eight days ago. But my treacherous legs choose that moment to buckle, and I would have crashed to the stone floor if Kairyx hadn't caught me with those unnervingly quick reflexes of his.

"Don't," I protest weakly as he lifts me into his arms, my head spinning with the sudden change in elevation. "I can walk."

He ignores me completely, striding from the library with me cradled against his chest like a child. The corridors blur as we move, my vision swimming in and out of focus. My pulse pounds too fast in my ears, drowning out the whispers of passing servants, the concerned questions from Elara when we reach my chambers.

"Her immune system is compromised," I hear Kairyx saying, his voice distant despite his proximity. "The stress of capture, the purging, the heat—her body couldn't sustain the strain."

I want to argue, to point out that he's the cause of all three stressors he just listed with such clinical detachment. But the words die on my tongue as another chill seizes me, violent enough that my teeth chatter audibly. I curl into myself, seeking warmth that doesn't exist.

Time dissolves into fractured moments after that—Elara's hands stripping away my sweat-soaked clothes. The shock of cool air against feverish skin. The softness of fresh nightclothes. Voices discussing medicine, herbal teas, compresses. None of it seems to matter as the fever drags me under, into a place where reality blurs with nightmare.

In my delirium, the room transforms. The stone walls become the library of Ashton Ridge, then the cottage where I lived alone for years, then my childhood home before the Conquest. Figures from my past move through these shifting spaces—my parents, smiling and whole before dragons darkened the sky. Resistance members I've worked with, theirfaces grim with determination that seems futile now. Darius, looking at me with disappointment as I wear another man's—no, not a man's—bite upon my neck.

I burn and freeze by turns, the sheets beneath me soaking with sweat only to chill me moments later. When hands lift my head, press a cup of bitter liquid to my lips, I drink without question, beyond caring if it's medicine or poison.

"Her fever's rising," a voice says—Elara's, I think. "Human temperatures shouldn't reach this high without brain damage."

"Get me ice from the northern storerooms," comes the response—deeper, resonant, unmistakably Kairyx. "And leave us. I'll monitor her through the night."

I expect to be left to servants' care. That's what happens to claimed omegas who fall ill, according to the whispered stories—useful only when healthy enough to please or breed, discarded when broken. Instead, I feel the mattress dip beneath significant weight as Kairyx settles beside me.

"Clara," he says, voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "Can you hear me?"

I struggle to open eyes that feel sealed with grit, managing only a sliver of vision. The room spins sickeningly around me, but he remains the fixed point at its center, his golden eyes reflecting the low firelight.

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