Page 30 of Naga's Mate

"The resistance didn't merely extract Lyra," I state, voicing the realization crystallizing in my mind. "They executed our children."

Seren's head dips in the gesture of mourning our species reserves for the most profound losses. "The elders demand immediate retaliatory strikes against all known human settlements within our territory."

As expected. Fundamental predatory instinct would accept nothing less. Eliminate those who eliminate your offspring. Eradicate the threat completely. It's the response encoded in our most primitive neurological structures.

Yet such action would fulfill precisely what the tactical minds behind this extraction anticipate—provoking indiscriminate violence that reinforces human propaganda about our bestial nature. Justifying their atrocities by provoking ours.

"No retaliation," I decide, noting Seren's momentary shock register in her scale patterns before her disciplined control reasserts. "Not yet. Not until we identify precise targets."

"The Council will question this restraint," she cautions, though her tone carries no challenge—merely factual assessment.

"Let them question. I will address their concerns when necessary." My authority within this territory remains absolute, despite the Council's theoretical oversight. "What of Lyra's tracking signature?"

Seren accesses another data set. "Still detectable, though diminishing. The specialized venom markers remain in her bloodstream but are being systematically neutralized. We estimate three to four days before the signature disappears completely."

Sufficient time, if utilized strategically.

"Prepare a reconnaissance unit—our most skilled trackers. No engagement, merely location confirmation. I require hourly reports on the signature's movement patterns."

"And once located?" Seren inquires, already anticipating my answer but requiring formal confirmation.

"I will lead the extraction team personally." The coldness in my voice would be recognizable to any naga as the most dangerous manifestation of rage—not the immediate fury of threatened territory, but the calculated patience of a predator whose young have been slaughtered. "However, we proceed with precision. No hasty action that might endanger Lyra despite her..." I consider the appropriate term. Betrayal seems incorrect—the evidence suggests coercion rather than choice. "Despite her extraction."

Seren departs with her instructions, leaving me alone in the command center. With solitude comes the luxury of releasing the rigid control necessary for leadership. My coils loosen, arranging into a more natural configuration as I access the private systems connected to the quarters Lyra and I shared.

The space remains exactly as she left it—research notes open on her specialized terminal, her unique scent lingering on the sleeping platform, hybrid plants we cultivated together thriving in the atmospheric regulators she designed. Tangible evidence of a connection that transcended initial claiming.

I navigate through our private systems, reviewing the progress we'd achieved together. The hybrid stabilization formulas she developed surpassed anything our specialists had created since the Conquest. Her adaptation to naga biochemistry had progressed to unprecedented levels. Most significantly, our offspring had developed further than any previous human-naga pairing, with stable genetic integration promising viability beyond early developmental stages.

All destroyed. Knowledge lost, connection severed, possibility eliminated.

I settle into the coiled position I've maintained since first claiming her, when I would encircle her sleeping form each night—a possessive gesture that evolved into something approaching what humans would call intimacy. The space where she should be remains vacant, the venom bond between us stretched to thinning strands that will soon break completely without renewal.

A private memory surfaces—Lyra's expression when first confirming the pregnancy. Not merely resignation or scientific curiosity, but genuine wonder beneath her attempted detachment. The moment her hand unconsciously moved to protect her abdomen when a laboratory experiment unexpectedly fractured nearby. The way her body naturally sought the protective embrace of my coils as the pregnancy advanced.

In the privacy of our quarters, I permit myself the acknowledgment no naga would voice in Council chambers: she had become more than claimed property. More than valuable research asset. Something neither language adequately defines.

I review intelligence reports indicating the extraction team's relocation to a resistance safehouse in the wetland transition zone. The location demonstrates tactical awareness—challenging terrain for naga forces, with environmental features that naturally disrupt our thermal tracking capabilities. The resistance believes themselves beyond immediate retribution.

They are mistaken.

As I rest in our empty quarters, surrounded by evidence of Lyra's presence and our collaborative work, I make a private vow transcending mere possession or territorial instinct. She will return—not merely as claimed property, but with complete understanding of what her "rescuers" truly represent. The bond between us, though strained to breaking, will be restored and strengthened through shared understanding.

And those responsible for the nursery deaths will face justice that has nothing to do with conquest law and everything to do with the most ancient codes of all predatory species.

CHAPTER15

RESISTANCE REVELATIONS

I waketo harsh fluorescent lights and the sharp smell of a medical facility trying too hard to be sterile. The light stabs my eyes. Everything hurts.

The world feels wrong—dull and muted, like someone's turned down every sense I have to the lowest setting. After months of Nezzar's venom enhancing my perception, this sudden return to basic human capacity is like being half-blind and deaf. Colors that should vibrate appear washed out. Scents that should carry complex information barely register.

"She's conscious," someone says. A voice I recognize. Reed.

My mind struggles through a fog of confusion. Memories return in broken pieces—the capsule, blaring alarms, Reed appearing at the laboratory door, the extraction. And then... the terrible cramping. The blood.

My hands fly to my abdomen, finding it flat where life had been growing just hours—or days?—before. The physical evidence of my loss hits me with a wave of grief that tightens my throat.

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