Page 53 of Naga's Mate

As evening approaches, we guide Thalia through her bedtime routine—a sequence designed to calm her hybrid nervous system toward sleep. She's still a baby, despite her accelerated development, fighting sleep with the universal stubbornness of one-year-olds everywhere.

"Come on, troublemaker," I murmur, lifting her as her tiny coils wrap instinctively around my wrist. "Bedtime for hybrid babies."

"No sleep," she protests with that musical quality that makes even simple baby communication sound otherworldly. She doesn't have many words yet, but 'no' was predictably among the first.

"Yes sleep," I counter, settling her into her specialized sleeping environment—part human crib, part naga resting bower. "Even little scientists need rest."

After three bedtime stories and twice as many lullabies as a human child would require, she finally drifts off, tiny coils still twitching occasionally as she dreams. Watching her sleep, I'm struck again by how ordinary and extraordinary she is simultaneously—her face peaceful and human in repose, while scale patterns pulse gently along her serpentine lower half.

When we finally retire to our private chambers, the familiar ritual of preparation carries a comfortable intimacy built through experiences that transcend conventional relationship milestones.

"The expansion initiative gets final approval tomorrow," Nezzar says as his coils arrange themselves around our shared sleeping platform. "Your presentation convinced even the old-school faction."

"They were impressed by the neural data," I reply, settling into my usual position—partially enclosed by his coils, maintaining contact with the scale patterns that now mark my skin. "Though I think Xylem was already on board before we showed up."

"She knows a good thing when she sees it."

His coils adjust, one massive length gliding deliberately along my side where the scale patterns are most prominent. The contact sends shivers racing along neural pathways specifically adapted to respond to his touch—another biological change that probably should disturb me more than it does.

"The patterns are spreading," he notes, tracing the scale-like markings that have gradually extended beyond my torso to follow my limbs in delicate networks. "Your adaptation keeps evolving."

His finger follows one particularly vibrant pattern down my arm to where it branches across my wrist in geometric precision, the touch carrying something approaching reverence.

"Not just adaptation to you," I correct, deliberately guiding his powerful coils to tighten around me with the pressure I've come to crave. "Evolution toward something neither of us saw coming."

His eyes meet mine, pupils contracting in the dim light. "Is that your way of saying you don't hate this anymore?"

I laugh, the sound soft in our private darkness. "I think we're well past the 'not hating it' stage, don't you?"

The heat in his gaze intensifies, scales transforming across his chest in patterns that signal arousal. "Show me exactly what stage we're at."

The invitation sends fresh warmth pooling between my thighs, my body responding to his with Pavlovian efficiency that would embarrass me if it didn't feel so damn good. One year post-pregnancy, and my omega biology still reacts to his alpha presence with embarrassing eagerness.

His coils tighten around me with practiced precision, restraining without hurting, controlling without breaking. The cool, smooth muscle slides against my heated skin as he shifts us into position, my back pressed against his chest, thighs spread wide by two powerful loops that hold me exactly as he wants me.

"I've been waiting all day for this," he growls against my neck, fangs grazing the sensitive skin where my claiming mark stands out in permanent relief. "The smell of you in that meeting with the Council elders was driving me crazy."

"Poor alpha," I tease, deliberately arching against his restraint. "Forced to think about something besides fucking for a few hours."

His answering growl vibrates through his chest and into my back. "I'll make you pay for that."

One scaled hand slides down my body with predatory intent, finding the wetness already gathering between my thighs. "So ready for me," he observes, fingers circling my clit with maddening precision. "Your mouth says one thing, but your body says another."

The crude language sends another rush of heat through me, my inner walls clenching around nothing as slick coats his exploring fingers. This is the part of our relationship that remains primal and intense—the alpha/omega dynamic that civilization pretends to control but only channels into predetermined patterns.

"Please," I whisper, the word escaping before I can stop it.

"Please what?" His fingers continue their merciless exploration, finding every sensitive spot with unerring accuracy. "Tell me exactly what you need, Lyra."

"Your cocks," I gasp, abandoning dignity in the face of mounting need. "I need your cocks inside me."

The admission draws a satisfied hiss from him, his restraint fracturing visibly as scales cascade across his torso in waves of emerald and sapphire. His twin cocks emerge from their concealed slit, thick and ridged and gloriously inhuman against my thigh.

"Like this?" he asks, positioning the twin tips at my entrance, the cool touch a shocking contrast to my overheated flesh.

"Yes," I manage, pushing back against him despite the restraint of his coils. "Don't tease."

He laughs, the sound dark with promise. "But teasing you is half the fun."

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