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"Seven." He unrolls another map, this one showing tunnel networks that branch throughout the mountain's heart. "Each leads to different terrain, different tactical advantages depending on pursuit type."

My breath catches as I study the routes. Some passages are too narrow for his wingspan—designed specifically for human use. The implications hit me like a physical blow.

"You planned for this." The words come out hoarse. "For me to escape without you."

His expression doesn't change, but his tail curls slightly—a tell I've learned indicates emotional discomfort. "Planning for all contingencies is survival practice."

"This isn't about contingencies." I trace one of the human-sized passages with my finger. "This is about you expecting to die tomorrow."

Silence stretches between us, heavy with truths neither wants to acknowledge. Council enforcement teams don't take prisoners—especially not Primes who've defied territorial claims. If Vex falls tomorrow, my survival depends entirely on routes only I can navigate.

"The secondary tunnel leads to a concealed ledge," he continues as if I haven't spoken. "Follow the red stone markers along the ridge. Three days south to valleys beyond Council control."

I memorize every path, every landmark, every cache location he describes. The information burns itself into my mind with the intensity of medical emergencies—details that might mean the difference between life and death.

But I hate every word.

"Most alphas would lock their omegas somewhere safe," I say, unable to keep the emotion from my voice. "Chain them down rather than risk escape."

His wings shift—that thoughtful adjustment I've come to recognize. "Possession without protection is meaningless."

Such simple words. No poetry, no romantic declarations. Just practical assessment of responsibility and commitment. Somehow that makes them more profound than any flowery speech could be.

Evening falls too quickly. Clear skies offer no further protection from aerial approach. Tomorrow will bring binding teams and extraction orders, Council authority backedby specialized weapons designed to neutralize exactly the advantages that make Vex dangerous.

Tension builds as we share our evening meal—preserved meat and mountain vegetables, simple food that tastes like dust in my mouth. We discuss final adjustments to defensive positions, review contingency protocols, check weapon placements one last time.

But underneath the tactical conversation, electricity crackles between us. Awareness that tomorrow might end everything we've built—this strange, complicated relationship that began with storm and claiming and has evolved into something neither of us anticipated.

When Vex finally sets aside his weapons and approaches where I sit on the sleeping platform, the hunger in his yellow eyes makes my breath catch. Not just physical hunger—though that's certainly present—but something deeper. Desperate. As if he's trying to memorize every detail of this moment.

"Amelia," he says, just my name, but it carries weight that makes my chest tighten.

I rise to meet him, pulled by the same desperate need. We might not survive tomorrow. Everything we've become—captor and captive evolved into something resembling partnership—could end with binding chains and Council justice.

The thought creates urgency that overwhelms caution.

His hands frame my face with surprising gentleness, claws carefully retracted so only the warm pads of his fingers touch my skin. When he kisses me, it's not the dominant claiming I expect but something almost reverent—as if I'm precious rather than possessed.

My clothes fall away beneath his careful touch, fabric parting without a single scratch to mark my skin. His control still amazes me—the precision required to undress someone with claws capable of tearing through stone. Each revealed inch offlesh receives attention from lips and tongue and gentle scrape of teeth.

When he lowers me to the sleeping furs, he follows with uncharacteristic restraint. His massive body hovers above mine, supporting his weight on forearms that bracket my head. The size difference that once terrified me now creates shelter—his broad chest and extended wings blocking out everything beyond this moment.

I reach for him, hands exploring the familiar landscape of scales and muscle and alien anatomy that has become as essential as breathing. His skin radiates heat that chases away the mountain cold, and when I press my lips to the junction where scales meet smoother flesh, he shudders with response that makes me feel powerful despite our size difference.

His cock emerges from its sheath already hard, the ridged length sliding against my inner thigh as he positions himself between my legs. The secondary organ extends with familiar purpose, seeking the bundle of nerves it was evolved to stimulate.

But instead of immediate claiming, he waits. Yellow eyes hold mine with silent question that acknowledges choice in ways our beginning never did.

"Please," I whisper, the word carrying permission and plea and something deeper—acceptance of connection that transcends the circumstances that created it.

He enters me with careful restraint, each ridge along his shaft creating delicious friction as he fills me inch by deliberate inch. My body welcomes him with eager heat, natural moisture easing his passage as muscles that once fought him now help draw him deeper.

The stretch still overwhelms—his size pushing the boundaries of what human anatomy should accommodate. But my omega biology has adapted in ways that continue to amazemy medical training. Where once there was only pain, now pleasure builds with each careful thrust.

When he's fully seated, his length reaching places no human could touch, the secondary organ attaches to my clit with perfect suction. The dual sensation—impossible fullness inside while specialized stimulation builds outside—draws a moan from deep in my throat.

"Vex," I gasp, hands clutching at his scaled shoulders as sensation overwhelms thought.