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The air grows thick with competing chemical signals—my desperation calling to his dominance, his possession triggering my submission. I find myself sinking to my knees without conscious decision, body responding to alpha commands that bypass rational thought entirely.

"Present yourself," he commands, the words carrying weight that makes my bones feel heavy.

My body betrays every principle I've held dear, moving into textbook omega submission posture. Back arched in a perfect curve. Hips raised and tilted. Face pressed into the furs. Arms extended in complete surrender. The nurse in me observes with detached horror how completely biology overrides consciousness, how deeply omega responses are coded into my very DNA.

"Look at you," Vex growls, circling my displayed form with predatory satisfaction. His wings extend to their full intimidating span, blocking out everything except his presence. "Dripping with need. Ready for breeding. For permanent bonding."

The words should revolt me. Instead, they trigger another flood of arousal, my body responding to alpha dominance with eager anticipation. A sound escapes my throat—high, needy, the distinctive omega distress call I swore I'd never make.

Never. What a meaningless word when biology holds the reins.

With methodical precision, he positions my body exactly how he wants it. Those massive hands grip my hips with strength that will leave fingerprint bruises on pale skin. His wings cast shadows across my exposed flesh, broadcasting dominance to instincts older than civilization.

"This time will be different," he tells me, voice thick with dark anticipation as he settles behind me. The heat radiating from his body creates a furnace that makes the cave's coolness irrelevant. "Not just claiming. Bonding. Marks that will identify you as blood-bound to any Prime who scents you."

Blood-bound. The medical part of my brain catalogs the implications with clinical precision even as heat-drunk omega biology celebrates the promise of permanent alpha connection. Blood bonding represents the deepest level of Prime claiming—chemical alteration at cellular level, permanent biological attachment, transformation of fundamental physiology.

"You're going to take everything I give you," he continues, one hand tangling in my hair to pull my head back, exposing the vulnerable line of my throat. "Every inch. Every drop. Every mark."

His cock presses against my entrance, and despite days of claiming, the stretch still challenges human limitations. The ridged texture drags against oversensitized tissues as he enters with deliberate slowness, forcing me to feel every textured ring, every subtle motion that speaks to anatomy evolved specifically for omega manipulation.

"Perfect fit," he hisses between clenched teeth. "Like you were designed for Chimeric claiming."

The fullness overwhelms—pressure against places that send electric currents racing through my nervous system, stretching that borders on damage yet feels inexplicably right. My inner muscles clench around him involuntarily, omega biology welcoming the invasion my conscious mind still fights.

His sucker extends from its sheath, finding my most sensitive flesh with precision that speaks to evolutionary perfection. When it attaches, the sensation bypasses every defense I've constructed. Unlike previous claimings, the pressure is immediately intense—not building gradually but starting at levels that blur the line between pleasure and pain.

"Feel how well we fit together?" he growls, establishing a rhythm that speaks to ritual rather than simple rutting. "Body knows what mind denies."

Each thrust follows precise timing. Each withdrawal measures exactly. This isn't frantic heat-claiming but something ceremonial, significant. His tail wraps around my thigh, scales smooth against fevered skin, holding me in position as he claims me with increasing intensity.

My medical training tries to engage, to analyze what's happening from a clinical perspective. But the dual stimulation—stretching fullness within while the sucker works my clit with mechanical precision—fragments thought into sensation too overwhelming to catalog.

"Your heat has one purpose," he pants, rut thickening his voice. "Preparing you for bonding. For carrying hybrid offspring."

The words trigger biological responses I can't control. Another rush of moisture eases his passage while internal muscles clench with eager anticipation. My omega biology recognizes breeding talk, responds to cues programmed into my very cells.

"Tell me what you need," he commands, claws pricking my skin just shy of breaking it.

"Alpha," I whisper, the word scraped raw from my throat. The sound of my own surrender should shame me. Instead, it sends more heat spiraling through my core. "Need you. Need your knot."

"Louder." His pace increases, those textured ridges creating friction that sends electricity up my spine. "Let me hear that pretty omega voice beg properly."

"Please," I gasp, dignity abandoned to desperate need. "Fill me. Knot me. I can't—I need?—"

The begging breaks his restraint. His thrusts take on punishing intensity, each one driving deeper than seems anatomically possible. Those ridges drag against internal walls with perfect friction, creating sensations that travel along nerve pathways like liquid lightning.

His tail whips forward, coiling around my throat with pressure that doesn't restrict breathing but reminds me of absolute vulnerability. The smooth scales against my pulse point send shivers through hypersensitive skin.

"Mine," he snarls with each impact. The word punctuated by flesh meeting flesh. "My omega. My territory. My bloodline."

I shouldn't respond to such primitive claiming. Should maintain fragments of dignity. Instead, sounds pour from my throat—high, desperate calls that signal submission more effectively than any words. My body moves without conscious direction, pressing back against each thrust despite the stretch that approaches my limits.

His wings curve forward, wing tips brushing my sides, adding texture and sensation that overwhelms my ability to process input. Smooth tail scales at my throat. Rough palms gripping my hips. Ridged length stretching me from within. Feather-light wing touches tracing patterns on burning skin.

Too much. Too many points of contact. Too many sensations converging.

Another whimper escapes—raw, needy, my biology broadcasting desperation. The sound triggers something primal in Vex. His rhythm falters before resuming with increased force, each thrust now bottoming out completely, the head of hiscock pressing against my cervix with pressure that sends sparks through my entire nervous system.