Page 26 of Naga's Mate

Reed. Contact established exactly as promised.

My pulse quickens as I carefully extract the message, unfolding it beneath the scanner's shielded compartment where surveillance systems can't detect its contents.

Extraction plan finalized. Transport arrives northern greenhouse boundary, section 7-B, 0200 hours next Thursday. Take capsule 30 minutes prior to arrival. Will neutralize venom bond without triggering withdrawal. One chance. Confirmation required through specimen return channel. —R

The capsule gleams beneath laboratory illumination as I examine it with enhanced perception. The liquid reveals complex molecular structures that might indeed counteract naga venom's neural effects—specifically designed to disrupt addiction pathways without triggering the catastrophic withdrawal I experienced during my earlier resistance attempt.

My scientific mind analyzes automatically, cataloging potential mechanisms, probable effectiveness, possible side effects. But what Reed omits—what my training makes painfully apparent—is that such a powerful neural disruptor would almost certainly terminate my pregnancy. The hybrid child depends on the very biochemical pathways this compound would sever.

Freedom at the cost of the life within me. The choice, starkly presented.

With unsteady hands, I conceal the capsule in a hidden compartment of my workstation—a modification I made weeks ago when escape seemed my only objective. Now it feels like an artifact from another lifetime, created by someone I barely recognize.

I contemplate my changed body, the visible evidence of transformation. The faint iridescent patterns beneath my skin pulse gently in the dimmed laboratory lighting—another adaptation developed to support the hybrid life within. Not merely pregnancy but complete biological revolution occurring cell by cell.

Could I sacrifice this unprecedented creation for freedom? Return to resistance operations, clandestine networks and suppressant distribution, to existence defined by opposition rather than adaptation?

Or remain here, in this gilded captivity with expanding research opportunities, with a captor who has become... something else. Something beyond simple categorization.

The laboratory door opens before I can descend further into moral uncertainty. Nezzar enters, his scales reflecting the aquamarine glow of specimen containment units.

"You should be resting," he says, his tone conveying concern rather than command. "The pregnancy requires considerable energy resources."

I quickly close the analysis program, heart racing with fear he might somehow detect the hidden message, the capsule, my divided loyalties. "Couldn't sleep," I manage, aiming for casual and failing completely.

His tongue samples the air, and I brace for accusation. But he misinterprets my evident distress, his powerful lower body curling around me in what I've learned to recognize as his version of comfort.

"Hormonal fluctuations frequently disrupt sleep patterns during this developmental phase," he explains, one hand settling protectively over our growing offspring. "The hybrid remains stable despite accelerated growth. Your adaptation surpasses all previous human-naga pairings."

The pride in his voice creates unwelcome warmth. Pride in me, in my body's accomplishment, in the unprecedented creation we've produced together. It's far easier to hate a monster than... whatever Nezzar has become to me.

"I've been tracking neurovascular development," I say, unconsciously leaning into his touch. "The embryo displays both naga temperature sensitivity and human cognitive structures. Evolutionarily fascinating."

"It's miraculous," he corrects, and the genuine wonder in his typically controlled voice twists something deep inside me.

As his coils draw me closer, I feel the hidden capsule's presence like smoldering coal in my awareness. Seven days. Seven days to decide between impossible futures—freedom without the child, or captivity with... with what? Scientific opportunity? Witnessing unprecedented biological development? A relationship evolved beyond captor and captive into something indefinable?

Or perhaps the most terrifying possibility: that somewhere amid months of venom and claiming and adaptation, I've developed feelings for my captor that transcend mere biochemistry.

The realization strikes with such force that I physically waver, Nezzar's coils tightening instinctively to steady me.

"You're exhausted," he says, misinterpreting my reaction again. "Come. You require rest."

As he guides me back to our quarters, the impending decision weighs like physical presence between us. Seven days to choose between worlds. Seven days to determine not just my future, but the future of the unprecedented life within me.

Seven days to acknowledge what I've been denying for weeks: that the most complicated aspect of this equation isn't the venom dependency or the pregnancy or even the captivity itself.

It's the fact that I'm no longer certain I want to leave.

CHAPTER13

MIDNIGHT ESCAPE

The extraction nightarrives with deceptive ordinariness—just another evening in my elegant prison. Freedom dangles before me like ripe fruit, simultaneously alluring and frightening. The capsule remains concealed in my laboratory, hidden in the false compartment I engineered when optimism still outweighed complexity.

I've spent hours categorizing my situation with the analytical precision that's become my emotional shield. Like any scientist worth her credentials, I've constructed a meticulous mental inventory, as if life's most pivotal decision could be distilled to data points:

Venom dependency:Severe physiological response without regular exposure. Potential neural damage. Pain beyond quantification.

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