Page 38 of Dragon's Captive

"As Commander Emberscale's claimed mate and breeding omega," she replies, her clinical description oddly at odds with the relationship that's developed between Kairyx and me. "Appropriate attire has been laid out. I'll assist with your preparation."

The dismissal in her tone would have enraged me weeks ago. Now I recognize it as protective distance—Elara creating plausible deniability in case unseen ears listen. Whatever's happening, it's serious enough that even the household staff are watching their words.

I follow her through corridors suddenly bustling with activity. Servants scurry about with greater urgency than usual, their expressions carefully blank. Dragon guards stand at more frequent intervals, their scaled forms radiating tension visible in the way their claws tap against weapon hilts, in how their golden eyes track movement with predatory focus.

My chambers have transformed in my absence. Clothing I've never seen before lays across the bed—fabrics richer and more formal than anything I've worn since capture. Their deep obsidian matches Kairyx's scales, with accents in gold andcrimson that invoke his territorial colors. Marking me as his, visually and unmistakably.

"I don't understand," I say as Elara efficiently begins arranging bathing oils and cosmetics I didn't know existed in the fortress. "Who is Commander Vorthrax? Why does his arrival warrant... this?"

"He rules the neighboring territory to the west," she explains, voice low despite the privacy of my chambers. "Bronze-scaled. Larger than Commander Emberscale, though not as strategically intelligent. His domain borders ours at the ridge line just beyond Ashton Ridge."

The significance hits me with stomach-churning clarity. Ashton Ridge—where Kairyx found me. Where he claimed me. Where he took me from the border between territories.

"Is this a diplomatic visit?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

Elara's hands pause in their preparations. "Technically, yes. In reality..." She meets my eyes directly. "News of your successful pregnancy has spread through draconic communication networks. The first successful gestation with Commander Emberscale's bloodline after seven failures. Such information travels quickly, especially among rivals."

Before I can process the implications, the doors swing open with enough force to rattle the hinges. Kairyx strides in, his massive form practically vibrating with barely contained fury. Scales that normally gleam obsidian black have darkened to something that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. The temperature in the chamber rises noticeably with his entrance, heat radiating from his body in waves that make the air shimmer around him.

"Leave us," he commands Elara without looking at her. She bows and exits without a word, closing the doors behind her with quiet efficiency.

For a moment, Kairyx simply stands there, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter in my chest. Then he moves, covering the distance between us with that preternatural speed that still startles me after all these weeks.

His hands cup my face with surprising gentleness given the obvious rage coursing through him. "Listen carefully," he says, voice dropped to a rumble too low for any eavesdroppers to hear. "Vorthrax's visit is no coincidence. He comes to challenge my claim on you."

"Challenge?" The word emerges as barely more than a whisper. "Can he do that?"

"Technically, yes." His grip tightens fractionally, scales hot against my skin. "Your claiming occurred in disputed territory—the settlement sits at the border between our domains. Under ancient draconic law, claims made in such regions can be challenged if proper registration protocols weren't observed."

Understanding clicks into place with nauseating clarity. "And were they? Observed?"

His silence is answer enough. In his haste to claim me before my heat fully manifested, before any other Prime could detect my omega nature, he'd delayed the formal registration. A bureaucratic oversight that now creates vulnerability neither of us can afford.

"What happens if his challenge succeeds?" I ask, though part of me doesn't want to know the answer.

Kairyx's scales ripple with a darkness I've never seen before. "He could claim legal right to you and the twins." The temperature spikes again, small wisps of smoke escaping his nostrils as his control slips. "I would not allow it."

The fierce possessiveness in his voice should offend me—I'm not property to be disputed between territorial alphas. Yet I find comfort in his certainty, in the protective fury radiating from him in palpable waves. Because while Kairyx may be a monster,he's become my monster, familiar and increasingly... something I refuse to name even in the privacy of my thoughts.

"What do we do?" I ask instead, surprised by how naturally the "we" forms on my tongue. No longer captor and captive but allies against external threat.

"Tonight, you will be formally presented at dinner. You will wear my colors, bear my scent, display your pregnancy as evidence of successful claiming." His thumb traces my lower lip with unexpected tenderness. "And you will let me handle Vorthrax."

I nod, not trusting my voice. The irony doesn't escape me—seeking protection from the very being who took my freedom, finding safety with my original captor against a greater threat. Stockholm syndrome at its finest, or something more complex that defies simple categorization?

The dinner is a performance of power disguised as diplomacy. The great hall of Drake's Peak, normally used only for territorial governance meetings, gleams with ostentatious display. Torches in obsidian sconces cast flickering light across walls adorned with ancient weapons and battle trophies. The massive table, carved from a single tree trunk petrified by draconic fire centuries ago, dominates the center of the space.

And at the opposite end from where Kairyx sits, Commander Vorthrax fills his chair with malevolent presence that makes my skin crawl from across the room.

If Kairyx is night personified—obsidian scales and golden eyes like stars in darkness—then Vorthrax is tarnished daylight. His scales gleam bronze, closer to copper in some places, but without the warmth such colors should convey. His eyes burn red-gold, like metal heated just below melting point, with vertical pupils so thin they nearly disappear against the fiery irises. Where Kairyx's features retain enough humanity to be read by human expressions, Vorthrax has made no suchconcessions to the conquered species. His face remains more reptilian, more alien, with a cruelty that feels deliberate rather than inherent.

I sit at Kairyx's right hand, draped in fabrics that mark me as his—obsidian silk trimmed with gold that falls in careful folds to showcase my growing belly. The claiming bite on my neck has been deliberately left exposed, its silvery scar tissue visible evidence of possession. Kairyx's scent covers me more thoroughly than usual, the result of a claiming session before dinner that felt more like territory marking than intimacy.

Servants move silently around us, bringing course after course designed to showcase the prosperity of Kairyx's domain. Conversation remains falsely pleasant, territorial disputes and governance challenges discussed with razor-edged politeness that doesn't disguise the animosity beneath.

I say nothing, follow Elara's careful coaching—eyes downcast, movements graceful, the picture of claimed omega contentment. The role chafes against everything I am, but survival instinct overrides pride. Whatever game these dragons play, I recognize the danger too clearly to disrupt it with misplaced defiance.

Until Vorthrax deliberately brings me into the conversation.

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