Page 7 of Shadow's Claim

Cold fear washes through me, temporarily dampening the heat symptoms. Unrecorded means no oversight, no witnesses. Officially, I haven't been arrested at all. I've simply disappeared, like countless resistance members before me.

"Your language skills are remarkable," he observes, circling the platform with predatory grace. All four of his arms move in constant, fluid motion as shadows dance around him. "Seven dialect variations in your written reports. Too precise for standard translator training."

The sudden shift to professional assessment catches me off guard. Is this his interrogation technique? Disorienting mood switches?

I stick to my cover story despite mounting terror. "I was a linguistics student before the Conquest. Northwestern University."

"Yes." His purple eyes narrow slightly. "Your records show your education was cut short by the dimensional rifts. Yet you learned Shadow Speech three times faster than any other human."

One hand grasps my chin, forcing eye contact. The touch sends unwanted electricity through my increasingly sensitive skin. Up close, his eyes aren't solid purple but contain swirling patterns like violent storms on an alien planet.

"What's most interesting," he continues, "is that you learn like someone with military training, not like a student."

Damn it. Even my learning patterns betrayed me?

"I've always had an ear for languages," I say weakly.

"An ear sharpened by resistance training," he counters. "The way you mimic Shadow Speech regional accents shows someone taught you intelligence gathering techniques."

Sweat beads on my forehead as the first waves of emerging heat intensify. My skin feels too tight, hypersensitive against the shadow restraints. Each point of contact sends confusing signals to my brain—part discomfort, part something I refuse to acknowledge.

"Your chemical disguise is impressive," Kael notes, shadows extending from his fingers to brush against my throat where pheromone glands are beginning to activate. "Not the usual black market stuff. Something much more advanced."

His fourth hand produces the communications device found in my uniform. "Just like this isn't standard human tech."

When he activates it, resistance codes flash briefly on the small screen. I lunge forward in desperate attempt to destroy the evidence, but the shadow restraints hold me firmly in place.

My sudden movement brings a rush of slick between my thighs, my body responding with shameful eagerness to the alpha pheromones Kael continuously emits. His nostrils flare, purple eyes brightening with cruel satisfaction.

"Your body tells truths your words hide, little omega."

The patronizing endearment sparks anger that temporarily cuts through the heat-fog. "My body isn't me."

"No?" One of his shadow tendrils traces along my collarbone, leaving trails of cold fire on hypersensitive skin. "Your mind lies. Your body can't."

To demonstrate his point, the tendril moves lower, brushing against my breast through the thin fabric of my underclothes. My nipple hardens instantly, a gasp escaping before I can stop it.

"Your heat is speeding up," he observes, as though conducting a scientific experiment rather than tormenting a captive. "About three hours until you lose control completely."

Three hours until I lose myself completely to omega biology—begging, pleading, willing to say anything or betray anyone just for the relief of alpha claiming. The resistance trains operatives to withstand standard interrogation techniques, but there's no defense against your own treacherous body.

"Tell me about the resistance network in the Shadow Dominion," Kael says, returning to formal interrogation mode with jarring abruptness. "Names. Locations. How you communicate."

I press my lips together, focusing on resistance mental disciplines. Create locked boxes in your mind. Surround critical data with useless memories. Build cognitive mazes that lead nowhere.

Kael watches my concentration with something almost like appreciation. "Those mental barriers won't hold once your heat takes over," he says. "But I'm impressed you're still trying."

Without warning, his shadow tendrils infiltrate deeper beneath my clothes, wrapping around my thighs with cold precision. I jerk against the restraints as they inch higher, discovering the damning evidence of slick soaking through my undergarments.

"Your omega scent has gotten 40% stronger in just the last few minutes," he reports, clinical assessment at odds with the intimate violation. "Your suppressants are completely gone now. Nothing left to hide behind."

His massive form looms closer, all four arms extended in formal Shadow Speech patterns I recognize from courtroom proceedings. The ceremonial interrogation stance.

"Nova Hayes, registered beta translator, actual omega resistance operative," he intones, the formal declaration sending chills down my spine. "You will tell me everything about all resistance activities, contacts, and operations in Shadow Dominion territory."

When I remain silent, one of his upper arms reaches toward my face. I flinch, expecting pain, but his touch is disturbingly gentle as he brushes sweat-dampened hair from my forehead.

"Physical torture doesn't work well on resistance operatives," he says. "You expect pain. You're ready for it. But your own biology will break you down in ways torture never could."

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