Page 26 of Shadow's Claim

I trace them in the mirror each morning, fingertips following their cool paths. Dr. Grey calls it "unprecedented integration." I call it evidence of my body's surrender to something I still fight in my mind.

Tonight, I sense Kael's approach before he enters—a whisper of cold against my skin, the shadows in my chamber deepening as if drawing breath. My body responds with pavlovian immediacy—pulse quickening, skin flushing, slick beginning to form between my thighs. Even without heat, my omega biology recognizes its alpha with humiliating eagerness.

"You're still awake." His voice resonates from the doorway, vibrating through my bones like distant thunder.

I don't turn from my position by the window, where I've been watching the Umbral Nexus skyline—a grotesque beauty of shadow-altered architecture against the night sky. "Hard to sleep these days."

The truth is more complex than I'll admit. My dreams have changed. Shadows move with purpose through them, carrying whispers I almost understand. Sometimes I wake convinced another consciousness brushed against mine—not quite formed, not quite separate, but undeniably present.

Kael moves toward me with that liquid grace that defies human movement, all four arms relaxed at his sides. The temperature drops several degrees as he approaches, his shadow-black skin absorbing what little light the room holds.

"The patterns have spread further," he observes, eyes tracking the visible tendrils that extend from beneath my thin nightgown.

I've stopped trying to hide my body from him. What's the point? He's claimed every inch of me already, and the growing shadow markings only seem to fascinate him more each day.

"Is that normal?" I ask, finally turning to face him. Despite a month of his nightly returns, the sight of him still sends an involuntary shiver down my spine—seven feet of alien muscle and shadow, four powerful arms, and those glowing purple eyes that miss nothing.

"There is no 'normal' for this situation," he replies, moving closer. "Your adaptation exceeds all previous records."

Something in his tone—a note of satisfaction or pride?—makes me bristle. "Don't sound so pleased. It's not an accomplishment to be... invaded like this."

His head tilts slightly, those unsettling eyes studying me. "Adaptation is not invasion," he says with unexpected gentleness. "It is evolution."

Before I can argue, he extends one hand toward my abdomen, hovering just above the fabric of my nightgown. "May I?"

These requests for permission still catch me off guard. After weeks of claiming, the pretense of choice feels almost more violating than simple taking would be.

I hesitate only briefly before pulling the nightgown over my head and standing naked before him. The shadow patterns are clearest this way—dark lines that stretch from my abdomen in fractal patterns, pulsing slightly with my heartbeat.

Kael approaches slowly, all four hands extending toward me. Two settle on my hips, one traces the lines up my ribcage, and the fourth gently cups my face, tilting it upward to meet his gaze.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and something in his tone sends an unwanted flicker of warmth through my chest.

I hate that my body leans into his touch, that my skin heats beneath his fingers, that my breath catches when his thumbs brush over the sensitive underside of my breasts. I hate even more that these reactions no longer require heat to override my consent.

"I hate this," I whisper, but the words lack conviction as my nipples harden against his palms.

His laugh is a low rumble that vibrates through the air between us. "Your mind still fights what your body has already embraced. How exhausting that must be."

One pair of hands slides around to my back, pulling me against him while the others begin exploring with deliberate intent—tracing shadow patterns, teasing sensitive spots he's methodically catalogued during our month of captivity. His touch is cool against my increasingly warm skin, the contrast heightening every sensation.

"The Council of Nine convened today," he says conversationally, his prehensile tongue slipping out to trace the curve of my ear. "Territorial disputes in the eastern district. Such tedious politics."

I don't know why he shares these details of his work. Perhaps it's part of his strategy—normalizing our relationship, creating illusion of partnership where only captivity exists. Or perhaps it's simply that shadow demons view claimed omegas as extensions of themselves, not worth excluding from their thoughts.

"I don't care about shadow politics," I reply, though my voice wavers as his lower hands knead the tight muscles of my lower back with painful precision.

His tongue traces down my neck to the claiming mark at my shoulder, the direct stimulation sending sparks of pleasure radiating outward. "You should. They affect your future now."

Before I can formulate a response, he lifts me effortlessly, all four arms supporting my weight as he carries me to the bed. The sheets feel cool against my back as he positions me with practiced efficiency, two hands pinning my wrists above my head while the others part my thighs.

I should fight. Should maintain some resistance, some dignity. But my body arches toward him with eager anticipation that makes mockery of such intentions.

His clothing dissolves into shadows, revealing his alien anatomy—midnight-black skin that seems to absorb all light, the powerful muscles of his four arms, and his prehensile cock already emerging, moving with unsettling independence as it seeks my entrance.

"Your scent changes daily," he observes, inhaling deeply near my throat. "The hybrid's influence grows stronger."

One hand slides between my thighs, fingers finding embarrassing evidence of my arousal. "So responsive," he murmurs, circling my clit with precise pressure that pulls a reluctant moan from my throat. "Even without heat, your body knows who it belongs to."

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