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"You can," Fritz counters, continuing his merciless circles with devastating precision. "Your body needs constant stimulation during bonding to cement the neurochemical pathways."

His other hand moves to my breast, pinching and rolling the sensitive nipple between his fingers. The dual stimulation quickly rebuilds pressure I thought impossible after such intense release.

"Please," I sob, unsure whether I'm begging him to stop or continue as pleasure mounts against my will. "Please..."

A rumbling sound starts in his chest—not a growl but something deeper, continuous, vibrating through his entire body and into mine where we're joined. The sensation of it against my oversensitized skin makes me shudder with unwanted pleasure.

"You're... purring," I manage between gasping breaths as his fingers maintain their relentless rhythm.

"Feline response to successful claiming," Fritz explains, the rumbling intensifying as he speaks. "The vibration enhances pleasure for both alpha and omega during extended knotting."

As if to demonstrate, he shifts his hips slightly, causing the vibrations to transmit directly through his knot to where it presses against my most sensitive inner spots. The sensation is overwhelming—pleasure so intense it borders on pain, forcing another climax from my already exhausted body.

I convulse around him with a scream that echoes off stone walls, inner muscles clamping down on his barbed length. The barbs, fully extended during knotting, catch against my channel with exquisite friction that prolongs the orgasm beyond what should be humanly possible to endure.

Fritz's purring intensifies with evident satisfaction as my climax triggers another pulse of seed from his length. "Good omega," he murmurs against my hair, the praise sendingconfusing warmth through me despite my hatred for this forced connection. "Taking my knot so perfectly."

The tears flowing down my cheeks are both physical release and emotional devastation—body surrendering to pleasure while mind rebels against violation. Fritz licks them away with surprising gentleness, his textured tongue rasping against my skin in way that makes me shudder despite myself.

By the time his knot finally begins to subside, I've lost count of how many times I've shattered beneath him. My throat is raw from screaming, my body trembling with exhaustion, my mind floating in strange disconnected space that isn't quite consciousness or unconsciousness.

Fritz withdraws with careful movements that nonetheless send aftershocks of pleasure-pain through my oversensitized system. Seed and slick leak from my well-used entrance in obscene volume, physical evidence of claiming I can neither deny nor embrace.

Unlike previous encounters where he immediately retrieved his clothing and departed, Fritz remains beside me on the pallet, one hand tracing claiming bite with possessive satisfaction that makes me want to scream. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with violation it represents, creating cognitive dissonance I have no framework to process.

"The medical staff will arrive shortly to check the claiming bite," he informs me, voice returned to its usual controlled register. "After confirming proper bond formation, you'll be moved to permanent quarters adjacent to command level."

The mundane practicality of his response creates jarring disconnect against life-altering violation that's just occurred. How can he speak so calmly of schedules and arrangements when he's permanently altered my existence without consent? When biological bond now connects us at level that transcends conscious choice or rational thought?

"I will never forgive you for this," I tell him, voice steady despite tear-streaked face and trembling limbs. "Never."

Fritz studies me for long moment, something almost like regret crossing his expression before commander's mask falls back into place. "Forgiveness was never tactical objective," he says finally, rising from the pallet with fluid grace that emphasizes his inhuman nature. "Security and territorial stability were primary concerns."

As he retrieves his clothing and dresses with military efficiency, I curl into myself on the pallet, one hand rising to claiming bite that throbs with each heartbeat. The mark pulses beneath my fingertips, reminder of chains I did not choose but cannot break. With each pulse, I feel growing awareness of Fritz's presence even as he moves across the chamber—connection that exists beyond physical proximity, beyond conscious control.

Not the claiming I dreamed of, not the future I planned, but prison constructed of biology and neurochemistry rather than steel and stone. Commander Clawe has claimed my body and marked me as his through deception and tactical calculation, but I silently vow he will never possess the core of who I am.

Even as the thought forms, claiming bond pulses between us with uncomfortable awareness that makes me wonder if anything can truly remain my own now that his mark rests upon my throat.

CHAPTER 8

NEW REALITY

Fritz POV

Two weeks since the claiming,and I still find my attention drawn to the bite mark at her throat.

The wound has healed cleanly, pink scar tissue forming the distinctive pattern of my dental structure—a visible declaration of ownership more effective than any collar or chain. When Aria moves her head a certain way, light catches the marking, drawing my eye despite my determination to maintain professional distance.

I force my focus back to the territorial maps spread across my desk. Dragon incursions have decreased since the claiming became permanent, my scent markers overlaying her omega signature creating territorial declaration even their arrogance respects. The tactical necessity has been satisfied. There's no reason for continued awareness of her presence that extends beyond basic command responsibility.

Yet I find myself tracking her movements through Shadowthorn's corridors via the claiming bond—that persistent awareness that connects us at neurochemical level. The connection transmits general emotional states rather thanspecific thoughts, though the intensity of her hatred requires no supernatural link to perceive. It radiates from her in waves whenever I enter her presence, scent souring with bitterness that shouldn't bother me but somehow does.

A knock at my office door interrupts these unproductive thoughts. Lieutenant Thorne's distinctive pattern—two sharp, one soft—identifies him before he enters.

"Commander," he says, saluting crisply. "The omega has completed her orientation tour of the command level as instructed."

"Her name is Aria," I correct without looking up from the maps. "If she's to function within command structure, proper designation is required."