Page 17 of Naga's Mate

By evening, I can barely stand. My internal temperature fluctuates erratically—freezing one moment, burning the next. My vision distorts despite the enhanced acuity the venom usually provides. When Nezzar appears at the laboratory entrance, his scales reflecting the fading daylight in iridescent patterns of emerald and sapphire, I feign indifference.

"It's time," he states simply.

"I'm not finished here," I manage, though my voice sounds distant even to my own ears.

His tongue flickers out, sampling the chemical storm of my withdrawal. "Your research will remain. Your body requires attention."

"No." The word emerges sharper than intended, desperation disguised as defiance. "I'm choosing to continue working."

Choice. The illusion I cling to despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Nezzar studies me, his massive form unnaturally motionless in that way unique to reptilian species. "Very well," he finally responds, coils shifting as he turns to leave. "Call when you're ready."

The unexpected acquiescence momentarily cuts through my symptoms. I anticipated force, expected his coils to encircle me regardless of my protests. The freedom to choose feels like a deception within a deception, but I grasp it nonetheless.

"I won't call," I declare to his retreating form. "Not tonight."

He pauses, head turning to regard me over his shoulder. "We shall see."

Two hours later, I understand the cruelty of his permissiveness. The withdrawal has progressed beyond discomfort into genuine agony. My muscles contract randomly, seizing with spasms that leave me gasping. My enhanced senses have transformed into instruments of torture—every color blindingly vivid, every sound painfully sharp, every texture against my skin like burning needles. The beautiful laboratory that usually offers intellectual refuge has become a chamber of sensory torment.

I collapse onto the cool floor, curling into a protective position as another wave of muscle contractions tears through me. Perspiration drenches my simple garments, my body simultaneously burning with fever and trembling with chills. The rational fraction of my mind—the scientist who observes even as the woman suffers—notes the similarity to severe opioid withdrawal. The venom has hijacked similar neurological pathways, creating dependency more profound than any human substance could achieve.

Time dissolves into meaninglessness as I lie there, reality fragmenting into disconnected moments of clarity between waves of pain. I vaguely register the laboratory door opening, Nezzar's imposing form approaching with that fluid grace that contradicts his size.

"Remarkable," he murmurs, looking down at my shuddering form. "Your withdrawal symptoms present more intensely than any previous case study. The neural bond appears exceptional in both strength and specificity."

Even through my suffering, I recognize his tone—not cruel but scientifically intrigued. I represent a specimen to him, a particularly interesting research subject exhibiting unexpected responses. This realization should infuriate me, but I lack strength for anything beyond basic survival.

"Help me," I whisper, pride abandoned before biological imperative. "Please."

"Fighting biological adaptation merely creates unnecessary suffering," he observes, his length gradually encircling my trembling body. "Your mind resists what your body has already accepted as essential."

His scales brush against my hypersensitive skin, somehow both abrasive and soothing simultaneously. With surprising gentleness for such a massive being, he lifts me from the floor, cradling my convulsing form against his chest as he carries me from the laboratory to our shared quarters.

The bathing pool awaits, vapor rising from the mineral-rich waters. Without ceremony, he slides us both into the heated liquid, his coils still supporting my shaking body. The water would normally feel excessively hot for human comfort, but in my withdrawal state, it barely registers as warm against my fever-bright skin.

"The minerals will temporarily stabilize your system," he explains as he positions us in the deepest section. "But only the venom itself will provide true relief."

Beneath the water, his form transforms with primal intent. All pretense of civilized restraint vanishes as scales ripple across his skin in emerald-sapphire waves. My omega biology recognizes the shift before my mind processes it—this isn't Nezzar the scientist or even Nezzar my captor. This is pure alpha predator, and I'm his prey.

His twin cocks emerge from their concealed slit with unmistakable readiness—thick, textured with ridges, and already glistening with that pearlescent venom my entire nervous system demands. They rise imposingly between us, evolutionary perfection designed specifically to render me unsuitable for anything else.

"Look at what you've become," he murmurs, voice dropping to that register that bypasses my rational mind and speaks directly to primal instinct. "A scientist reduced to withdrawal tremors without her necessary dose." His tongue samples my desperation in the humid air. "Beg me for fulfillment, little addict."

I hate him. I hate myself more for what follows.

"Please," I whimper, the sound barely human in its desperation. My thighs part instinctively, moisture forming despite submersion. "I need you inside me. Need your venom. Need—" my voice breaks on a sob, "—need you, alpha."

That title—alpha—escapes unbidden, and I watch his pupils contract to predatory slits at the sound. His coils move with frightening speed, one wrapping around my waist while two others capture my ankles, yanking my legs apart with efficient strength. Not merely spread but displayed, pinned open like a specimen for examination. My humiliation only intensifies the ache pulsing between my thighs.

"Tell me who possesses this body," he demands, his tail tip sliding up my inner thigh with excruciating deliberation. It circles my entrance, gathering evidence of my arousal, before moving to flick against my sensitive bud with precision that blurs my vision.

"You do," I gasp, arching into the contact despite myself. "You own me. Just take me already!"

The desperation startles us both—I've never been one for such abandon, even before captivity. But withdrawal has stripped away pretense, leaving only raw need.

His coils reposition me with dizzying speed, turning me to face away from him before pulling me back against his scaled chest. Another coil encircles my throat—not suffocating but controlling, forcing my head back to expose my claiming mark. His rigid erections press against my entrance, their combined width stretching me beyond what human anatomy could achieve.

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