Page 3 of Dragon's Captive

I press my forehead against the cool glass, closing my eyes against the sight. For a dangerous moment, I allow myself to imagine a different world—one where I don't need to hide, where my secondary gender isn't a death sentence or a breeding contract. What would it be like to just be an omega without fear? To experience the biological imperatives I've chemically suppressed for a decade?

The thought brings a confusing mix of longing and disgust. My body, free of suppressants, would cycle naturally. I wouldexperience heat—the overwhelming need, the slick preparation, the desperate craving for alpha completion. The mere thought sends an unwelcome pulse of warmth through my core, and I jerk away from the window.

No. This is dangerous thinking, the kind that gets omegas claimed. I've seen what happens to them—eyes vacant with chemical dependency, bodies swollen with hybrid young, existing solely to satisfy alpha demands. I've counseled too many through the library's discreet information service, heard too many horror stories of claiming nights, of bodies forced to accommodate inhuman anatomy, of the slow erosion of self under biological imperative.

I return to the main floor and gather my things—a worn leather satchel containing nothing incriminating, a threadbare coat suitable for a beta of modest means. Before leaving, I walk through the rare book room one last time, checking that everything is secure. My fingers linger on the spine of a pre-Conquest medical text hidden behind a false catalog entry—the book that helped me formulate my suppressant regimen when commercial options became increasingly regulated.

The library settles around me, creaking gently as it does every evening. For a moment, I allow myself to breathe in the comforting scent of old books, of paper and binding glue and leather. Of safety. Of the one place in this new world where I've managed to carve out an existence on my own terms.

"One more day," I tell myself as I finally turn to leave. "Just get through one more inspection."

But as I step outside and lock the heavy doors behind me, the cooling evening air carries a hint of smoke—the unmistakable scent of dragon. A patrol, perhaps, or just an atmospheric remnant of their presence in the region. Either way, it's a reminder that tomorrow brings Commander Kairyx Emberscale himself.

And my body, warming beneath failing suppressants, knows exactly what that means.

CHAPTER 2

THE COMMANDER ARRIVES

The town squaretransforms overnight into a monument to draconic vanity. Staff from the administrative center arrive at dawn, setting up ceremonial banners emblazoned with the Draconic Imperium's insignia. Their efficiency speaks volumes about the fear driving them—every fold perfect, every placement measured twice. I watch from the library's upper windows as they scurry about like ants preparing for a storm.

Pathetic. And yet completely rational.

When Commander Kairyx Emberscale last visited Ashton Ridge three years ago, an administrator who failed to properly display territorial colors was publicly reprimanded. The man disappeared the next day. Official report: voluntary transfer to another settlement. Reality: who knows? Who dares ask?

My own preparations are more subdued but no less desperate. I swallowed two pills last night instead of my usual one—double the dose, double the protection, double the risk to my already taxed liver. The tremor in my right hand tells me my body isn't happy with this decision. Neither is the persistent headache drilling behind my eyes.

Small prices to pay for survival.

I smooth down my most professional outfit—a charcoal gray skirt suit that hangs slightly loose, deliberately chosen to hide any curves that might betray my omega physiology. My chestnut hair is twisted into a severe bun that pulls uncomfortably at my temples, adding to my headache but eliminating any hint of softness from my appearance. No makeup, sensible shoes, wire-rimmed glasses I don't actually need but which add a scholarly severity to my face.

Beta librarian. Forgettable. Unremarkable. Safe.

"Miss Dawson?" Elijah's voice carries up the stairs, higher than usual with nervous energy. "They're saying he's coming! The watchtower spotted him crossing the ridge!"

My stomach lurches, a queasy flip that has nothing to do with the excess suppressants and everything to do with primal fear. "I'll be right down," I call back, my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system.

One last glance in the small mirror I keep in my office drawer. Pale face, shadows under hazel eyes, lips pressed into a thin line of determination. I look ill, which works in my favor—illness masks the subtle signs of omega biology fighting through chemical constraints.

The town's warning siren begins its low, mournful wail—the signal for a high-ranking Prime's approach. Three long tones, a pause, then three more. Down in the streets, humans scurry to their designated observation areas. Not hiding—dragons hate when humans hide, interpreting it as resistance rather than fear—but standing in neat rows, heads appropriately bowed, bodies visibly available for inspection.

I make my way downstairs, where Elijah waits by the circulation desk, his gangly teenage frame vibrating with a mixture of terror and the forbidden excitement that comes with witnessing something so dangerous up close.

"Is everything ready?" I ask, though I know it is. We spent hours yesterday ensuring every book was in place, every surface dusted, every regulation visibly followed.

"Yes, ma'am." He nods vigorously. "Do we—do we go outside? To watch him land?"

I shake my head. "The notice specified he would conduct an inspection of the library. We'll await him at our posts."

The relief on Elijah's face is almost comical. Almost, except there's nothing funny about the situation. Dragons are not tourist attractions to be gawked at; they're apex predators with human civilization caught firmly between their teeth.

The siren stops abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Then comes a sound like distant thunder—massive wings displacing air, growing louder with each passing second. The windows rattle in their frames as the sound builds to a physical pressure against my eardrums.

And then, darkness falls—sudden and absolute as a massive shadow passes over the library, blocking out the morning sun. The entire building trembles, dust motes dancing in the beams of light that return as suddenly as they vanished.

"Holy shit," Elijah whispers, eyes wide as dinner plates.

I should reprimand him for the language, but I can't find my voice. My omega biology, though heavily suppressed, responds instinctively to the proximity of such a powerful alpha. Heat floods my core, a rush of unwanted arousal that makes my knees weak. I grip the edge of the circulation desk until my knuckles turn white, fighting for control.

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