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"That's feline propaganda," she argues, though uncertainty flickers across her features. "Dragons are more civilized, more?—"

"More prone to burning humans from inside out with fire-seed that scars internal tissues beyond repair," I interrupt coldly. "Their dual reproductive organs cause damage human physiology isn't designed to accommodate. We recovered three omega escapees from dragon breeding pens last territorial dispute. None could walk without assistance afterward."

She pales visibly, though stubborn denial remains etched in her expression. Between her thighs, the slick dampness soaking through her pants has become visibly apparent, her body's preparation for claiming proceeding regardless of our conversation. The scent of it hits my sensitive nose like a physical force, triggering instinctive responses I ruthlessly suppress.

I notice her gaze dart momentarily to my exposed fangs, then to the fur bristling along my forearms—small tells that my control isn't as perfect as I'd like to believe. Her scent shiftsslightly, fear mingling with something else as her body responds to alpha pheromones despite her mind's obvious rejection.

"I don't believe you," she whispers, though her conviction wavers. "They wouldn't?—"

"They did. They do. Your settlement's dragon preference has fed you dangerous fantasies." My voice hardens. "Fantasies that nearly got you killed or worse."

Another wave of heat visibly sweeps through her, making her sway slightly where she stands. Her hands clench at her sides, fighting the omega instinct to present submission posture. The combination of biological surrender and mental resistance creates a fascinating contradiction I find myself watching with unwanted interest.

"Please," she says suddenly, desperation breaking through pride. "Send me to dragon territory. I was meant for them, not..." Her gesture encompasses me dismissively. "...this."

Something in me snaps. My control slips for the first time in years.

My pupils contract to vertical slits, fur bristling visibly along my spine as a growl builds in my chest—a sound no human throat could produce, rumbling from deep in my diaphragm with predatory resonance that fills the chamber completely. The escorts step back instinctively, responding to the alpha dominance display even they rarely witness.

Aria flinches, genuine fear flickering across her face as the sound triggers primitive responses buried in human DNA. Her head tilts slightly, unconsciously exposing her throat in the instinctive omega submission posture she's been fighting since arrival.

The sight triggers unexpected predatory satisfaction that I immediately suppress, disgusted with myself for the lapse. I am a commander, not an animal. Her disrespect may be infuriating, but losing control only validates her opinion of felines asuncivilized beasts. Yet beneath my disgust runs something darker—a primal rage, possessive and absolute, clawing at my control. Not because I want her, but because her rejection stings in places I thought long calloused over.

I rise in a single fluid motion, standing to my full seven-foot height. "You know nothing of what you were 'meant for,' omega." The term emerges more like epithet than designation. "Your romantic fantasies about majestic dragons would have ended with you claimed by multiple alphas in succession, used until breeding was confirmed, then discarded to whatever function your damaged body could still perform."

I step down from the platform, approaching her with measured steps. She holds her ground despite visible trembling, a courage I might admire under different circumstances.

"Since you seem determined to believe feline lies," I continue coldly, "perhaps you should hear what dragon alphas say themselves." I gesture to the communication officer. "Play territorial communication intercept alpha-seven-three."

The recording crackles through the chamber's acoustic system—the dual-toned voice of a dragon commander discussing omega acquisitions with cold calculation:"Human breeding stock requires replacement every three to five cycles. Their bodies cannot sustain fire-seed exposure beyond that threshold. Prioritize younger specimens for the next acquisition sweep."

Aria's face drains of color. "That could be fabricated," she whispers, but doubt has clearly taken root. I notice the same flicker of uncertainty I'd seen when mentioning dragon cruelty—as though this isn't the first time she's heard warnings about her precious dragons. Perhaps someone in her settlement had tried to dissuade her fantasies before.

"We have seventeen similar communications," I inform her dispassionately. "Their breeding program views omegas asdisposable resources, not potential mates. Your settlement's dragon preference stems from distance—they maintain minimal direct contact, allowing fantasies to flourish. We patrol more visibly, making us the visible oppressors while they maintain illusions of benevolence."

Another heat wave crashes through her, stronger than before. Her knees buckle slightly before she forces herself upright, but not before I catch the scent of fresh slick, her body's desperate preparation for claiming accelerating despite our confrontation. She's progressing toward full heat more rapidly than expected—likely stress-accelerated from the failed escape attempt.

"I won't be claimed by a feline," she insists, though her voice has weakened considerably. The statement carries both defiance and plea, her gaze darting over my inhuman features with poorly concealed revulsion.

Her continued, delirious fixation on the fire-breathers grates against my senses, a phantom challenge to my very real control over this territory. Her clear disgust at my appearance shouldn't matter—I've seen similar reactions from countless humans over the years—yet something about her specific rejection strikes deeper than expected.

"You presume I have any interest in claiming unwilling omegas," I reply, voice like ice. "Particularly those with childish dragon fixations and settlement attitudes that border on resistance sympathizing."

Relief washes visibly through her, quickly followed by new calculation. The omega may be in pre-heat, but her mind remains sharper than most would manage under similar biological pressure.

"What happens to me, then?" she asks, a slight tremor in her voice betraying the fear beneath her continued defiance.

"Standard protocol. You'll be confined to heat-proof chambers until your cycle completes. Afterward, transfer to a central breeding facility for processing." I deliver this information with deliberate clinical detachment. "Lieutenant Thorne will oversee the arrangements."

Her eyes widen fractionally, fresh fear-scent spiking through her heat pheromones. "Breeding facility," she repeats, horror evident despite her attempt at control. "You mean forced claiming by facility alphas."

"I mean appropriate processing according to Conquest Law," I correct coldly. "The facility system offers greater choice than you might imagine. Compatibility testing maximizes successful pairings. Many omegas find suitable arrangements."

"Suitable arrangements," she echoes, bitterness bleeding through heat-strained voice. "You mean owners who might treat their property with basic decency."

Her words hit closer to my private thoughts than I care to admit. The system I enforce is far from perfect. But a borderland commander questioning Conquest Law openly invites consequences beyond my personal discomfort.

"Your opinions on Confederacy governance are noted and irrelevant," I reply. "Medical staff will provide suppressants to manage symptoms until transfer. Lieutenant, escort the omega to containment chamber three."