Page 13 of Naga's Mate

Nezzar waits, observing my internal conflict with predatory patience. He doesn't force me—he doesn't need to. The uncomfortable tackiness of dried perspiration and other fluids I refuse to name even mentally eventually outweighs principle. With reluctance that feels like surrender, I enter the water.

The temperature startles me initially—far hotter than any human would normally tolerate—but my venom-altered physiology adapts with unnerving speed. The mineral-rich water seems to extract the aches from my overused muscles, providing relief I hadn't realized I desperately needed.

"Your temperature tolerance has increased substantially," Nezzar notes, his massive form sliding into the water with barely a ripple. "Most humans would find this distressing."

"Most humans haven't been saturated with naga venom for three days straight," I retort, finding my voice properly for the first time since my capture. It sounds different—hoarser than normal, worn raw from days alternating between cries of pleasure and futile protests.

Something resembling amusement flickers across his inhuman features. "Indeed. The venom creates neurological adaptations unique to each omega. Yours appear exceptionally pronounced."

He moves toward me through the water, and I instinctively tense, expecting the claiming to continue despite my heat's recession. Instead, he retrieves what appears to be a specialized natural sponge from a nearby ledge. Without requesting permission—why would he? I'm legally his property now—he begins cleansing my body with methodical thoroughness.

The scientist in me observes with clinical detachment how his touch remains impersonal despite our recent intimacy. The scales of his hands occasionally brush against my sensitized skin, cooler than human flesh despite the hot water. The sponge contains some botanical cleanser that creates subtle lather, removing evidence of my heat without irritating my tender skin.

What disturbs me most isn't the invasion of my personal boundaries—those were obliterated days ago—but the unexpected gentleness he displays. It would be simpler to hate a brutal captor, to maintain clear mental separation from my circumstances. This careful attention creates complexity where I need simplicity to survive.

Throughout this process, my enhanced senses continue cataloging the surroundings. The water contains at least seven mineral compounds I recognize from my research, plus something unfamiliar that soothes inflamed tissue on contact. The plants encircling the bathing area emit subtle chemical signals that interact with the water's vapor, creating an atmosphere remarkably similar to the specialized healing chambers in the medical wing.

"Your mind never ceases analyzing, does it?" Nezzar observes, his golden eyes studying me with that predatory focus I've come to recognize. "Even now, you categorize, assess, evaluate. A true scientist."

I turn away, refusing to acknowledge the accuracy of his observation. "Professional habit."

"A valuable one," he counters, resuming his methodical cleansing. "And precisely why you're here rather than in a general breeding facility."

As his scales brush against my inner thigh, my body responds with immediate moisture production despite my mind's revulsion. The reaction is automatic, uncontrollable—a conditioned response to the very being who's rewritten my neurochemistry. The venom dependency has created biological chains more effective than any physical restraints could ever be.

"Your body remembers what your mind resists," Nezzar notes, his tongue sampling the evidence of my unwilling arousal in the air.

I turn away, humiliation burning through me. "A chemical reaction. Nothing more."

"Yet far more efficient than bars or chains," he responds, his voice carrying that terrible patience unique to predators who know their prey cannot escape. "The venom binds you to me more completely than any physical constraint."

The truth of his statement burns worse than any insult. My body has become my prison, my omega biology rewired to crave the very thing that represents my captivity. I've spent years developing suppressants specifically to avoid this fate, only to experience it in its most extreme form.

When he finishes cleansing me, Nezzar guides me from the pool to a raised platform covered in specialized moss that instantly begins absorbing moisture from my skin. The texture feels impossibly soft against my still-sensitive body, providing comfort I refuse to verbally acknowledge.

"Now that your mind has cleared," he says, his coils arranging themselves around the platform without quite touching me, "we have matters to discuss."

"What matters could possibly exist between captor and captive?" I ask, finding small courage in breaking the silence I've maintained when not lost to heat-induced begging.

"Your botanical research," he responds simply. "And your successfully suppressed omega status. Both represent valuable knowledge."

Of course. I should have realized sooner. He didn't shield me from breeding centers out of twisted kindness. My scientific knowledge makes me an asset worth exploiting in multiple ways.

"I have nothing to tell you," I lie, mentally cataloging the resistance contacts I must protect, the suppressant formulas I've developed, the network of omegas I've helped conceal from detection.

Nezzar studies me, golden eyes unnervingly still in a manner unique to reptilian species. "Your resistance is futile," he states, his tone matter-of-fact rather than threatening. "But also intriguing. Most omegas submit completely after experiencing naga venom."

Instead of punishing my reluctance as expected, he seems almost pleased by the challenge I present. His coils shift, loosely encircling me in what has apparently become our typical relaxation position—restrained yet not painfully constricted. I could move within the circle of his massive form, but not escape it. Like everything about my new reality, he offers the illusion of choice while maintaining absolute control.

"You'll reveal everything eventually," he continues with that terrible patience unique to his species. "The venom ensures it. But I find myself curious about how long you'll maintain this pointless struggle."

As the day transitions into evening, I discover more details about my luxurious prison. Specialized illumination shifts to mimic natural cycles. A sleeping bower on a raised platform seems designed specifically for human comfort despite occupying a chamber clearly built for naga physiology. Sustenance appears through a delivery system I don't yet understand, featuring fresh produce and nutrient-dense options that suggest careful consideration of human dietary requirements.

Each thoughtful element makes my captivity more confusing, harder to categorize with simple hatred. The scientist in me appreciates the environmental engineering while the woman in me remains terrified of the psychological impact of such specialized attention. Stockholm syndrome begins with small comforts, with captors who seem reasonable, with moments of kindness that create cognitive dissonance.

As night falls and my exhaustion becomes evident, Nezzar guides me to the sleeping bower. "Rest," he instructs, though his tone lacks the harshness the word implies. "Your body requires recovery after prolonged heat."

I lie down because I have no alternative, because exhaustion undermines resistance, because the altered biochemistry of my post-heat state demands sleep to process the hormonal changes. Nezzar's coils arrange themselves around the bower, not directly contacting me but positioned to detect any movement. The message is unmistakable: I remain contained, even in sleep.

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