Page 9 of Dragon's Captive

My eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed. Not yet. Not where anyone can see.

The older woman walks beside me, her hand firm on my elbow—not cruel, but insistent. "I'm Elara," she says quietly as we walk, her voice pitched for my ears alone. "I've been assigned as your personal attendant during transition."

Transition. Such a clinical word for what they plan to do to me. "Lucky you," I mutter, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

"Indeed," she replies, surprising me with what sounds almost like genuine sympathy. "The Commander's claimed omegas receive better treatment than most. You should be grateful it wasn't Warlord Vorthrax who found you."

The name means nothing to me, but her tone conveys everything I need to know. There are worse fates than beingclaimed by Kairyx. A fact that provides exactly zero comfort at the moment.

We ascend several levels via a spiraling ramp carved directly into the stone—no stairs, I note, another accommodation for draconic physiology. The air grows noticeably warmer as we climb, the atmospheric control systems clearly calibrated for creatures with higher natural body temperatures than humans.

Finally, we reach our destination. Two massive doors carved from some dark wood I don't recognize swing open to reveal...

A beautiful prison.

The quarters mock my captivity with their luxury—a spacious chamber larger than my entire cottage in Ashton Ridge, furnished with pieces that would have graced a pre-Conquest mansion. A sitting area with plush chairs before a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. A dining space with a table that could seat twelve comfortably. And dominating it all, on a raised platform at the far end of the room, a massive bed draped in silks the color of blood and midnight, its frame carved with the same flame patterns I'd seen at the entrance.

A claiming bed. A breeding bed. The place where Kairyx intends to take what Conquest law says belongs to him.

"Through there is your bathing chamber," Elara indicates a doorway to the right. "And a dressing room with appropriate attire has been prepared."

I barely hear her, my attention caught by the balcony beyond sheer curtains that billow in a gentle breeze. Hope flares briefly until I approach and see what lies beyond—a dizzying thousand-foot drop to jagged rocks below. Not an escape route. A reminder of how trapped I truly am.

"I'll have the purging herbs brought up with your first meal," Elara continues, moving efficiently around the room, opening curtains wider to let in mountain air, adjusting items on sidetables with practiced hands. "The process isn't pleasant, but it's less severe if you cooperate with the protocol."

I barely hear her, my mind still frantically searching for options, for escape routes, for anything that might prevent what's coming. But there's nothing. Nothing but luxury designed to house an omega for a dragon's convenience.

The door opens again, and I turn, expecting servants with the dreaded purging herbs. Instead, Kairyx himself fills the doorway, having shed his formal uniform for a simpler black tunic that leaves his scaled arms exposed. He's discarded the more human disguise he wore in town, allowing horns to extend further from his forehead and scales to spread across more of his visible skin. In this private domain, he has no need to accommodate human comfort with his appearance.

Elara immediately bows low and backs from the room, closing the doors behind her and leaving me alone with the monster who now owns me.

"The quarters are acceptable?" he asks, moving into the space with that predatory grace that makes human movement seem clumsy by comparison. His focus zeroes in on me, cataloging my disheveled appearance, my obvious fear.

"Does it matter?" I counter, backing away until my legs hit the edge of a chair. "Would you change anything if I said no?"

A smile curves his mouth, revealing teeth too sharp to be human. "Perhaps not the quarters. But I'm not inflexible about preferences. Claimed omegas who please their alphas find their circumstances can be quite comfortable."

The implication sends heat rushing to my face—part anger, part humiliation, part something I refuse to name. "I will never please you voluntarily," I say, each word precise and cold.

"Your mind may resist," he acknowledges, continuing his circuit of the room, touching objects here and there with proprietary assurance. "But your body already knows what itneeds, even if your mind fights against it." He pauses, golden eyes fixing me with terrible focus. "I can smell your response to me even now, through chemicals designed to suppress it. Imagine how strong it will be once your true nature emerges."

My fists clench at my sides, nails digging half-moons into my palms. "You'll adjust to your new reality," he continues, voice neutral, almost kind if one could ignore the content of his words. "They all do, in time. The claimed omegas who fought hardest often become the most devoted once biology overrides conditioning."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" I ask, finding strength in anger. "That it's biology, not trauma response? Not captivity syndrome?"

His expression darkens momentarily, scales shifting color from obsidian to something deeper, absorbing more light. "You've read prohibited materials, I see. Your work as a librarian provided access to dangerous ideas."

A mistake. I've revealed too much. Knowledge of resistance terminology could mark me as more than just an unregistered omega. It could identify me as an active sympathizer, perhaps even a member of the Network.

"I've read everything in the Ashton Ridge collection," I say carefully, trying to redirect. "My knowledge is academic, nothing more."

He studies me for a long moment, his gaze so intense I can almost feel it like physical pressure against my skin. Then he seems to dismiss the concern, turning toward the door.

"Rest while you can," he advises, pausing at the threshold. "The purging process will tax your strength considerably. Once it begins, there's no reversing it—your heat will manifest within days, and then we'll both discover what you truly are beneath the false identity you've constructed."

The door closes behind him with a sound like finality, leaving me alone in my beautiful prison, with nothing but the mountain wind and the knowledge of what's coming for company.

CHAPTER 5

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