Page 24

Thorne's subtle scent shift betrays his surprise at my correction, though his expression remains neutral. "Of course, sir. Aria has completed her orientation. Medical staff confirms the claiming bond has stabilized effectively. Dr. Merrin recommends assigning duties to establish routine."

I nod once, decision already made. "Send her in."

As Thorne departs, I rise from my desk, moving to stand before the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the valley below. Blackridge Settlement appears from this height as collection of toy-like structures, humans moving between buildings like ants in organized colony. My reflection in the glass reminds me of what Aria sees when she looks at me—inhuman predator with golden eyes that hold no whites, just vertical slits against amber backgrounds. The scars running from temple to jaw only enhance the monstrous appearance. No wonder she flinches when I move too suddenly.

The door opens again, bringing her scent to me immediately—that unique sweet-spice profile now permanently marked with my own muskier notes. The claiming bite ensures ourscents remain mingled regardless of physical proximity, another biological mechanism designed to warn off competing alphas.

"You summoned me, Commander?" Her voice carries carefully controlled neutrality that doesn't match the resentment flooding through our bond.

I turn from the window, studying her with deliberate thoroughness. The standard fortress uniform fits her tall frame adequately, though the cut designed for beta females doesn't quite accommodate her more athletic build. Her auburn hair has been pulled back into practical braid, emphasizing the clean lines of her face and the claiming mark visible at her throat. Despite everything, she maintains remarkable composure—spine straight, chin lifted in subtle defiance that contradicts the submissive posture claiming biology attempts to impose.

"Your heat has settled down," I observe, watching her reaction carefully. "Medical staff says your hormone levels are back to normal."

Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Yes. The claiming bite ensures that, doesn't it? Among other things."

The bitterness in her tone shouldn't rankle me as it does. The claiming was tactical necessity, not desired connection. Her resentment is both expected and irrelevant to command operations.

"We need to figure out your place here," I continue, deliberately ignoring her provocation. "Keeping you locked away would waste your intelligence and what you know about the area."

Surprise flickers across her features before she can mask it. She clearly expected continued restrictions rather than functional integration. "What did you have in mind?"

I move to the desk, indicating the settlement maps spread across its surface. "You'll handle trade with Blackridge. Your experience as guide and negotiator is valuable. It'llhelp Shadowthorn's operations while keeping the settlement cooperative."

Her expression shifts through multiple emotions too quickly to catalog—suspicion, interest, calculation, and something else I can't quite identify. "You'd trust me with that level of settlement contact? After I tried to escape your territory entirely?"

My tail sways once behind me, measuring my thoughts as I consider my response. "The claiming bite makes escape impossible beyond certain distance. And your knowledge of local trade routes and settlement politics gives us advantages that outweigh the risk."

"Always tactical," she murmurs, just loud enough for my enhanced hearing to catch. "Always about military advantage."

I let the comment pass, focusing instead on operational details. "You'll report directly to me instead of through the usual chain. Weekly trade assessments, daily settlement reports. Lieutenant Thorne will go with you at first until we've worked out security."

As I explain her duties in more detail, I notice her watching my tail with increased attention. The realization that she's studying my unconscious tells—the movements that betray emotions I keep carefully controlled in expression and voice—creates unexpected tension between my shoulder blades. Few humans bother learning feline body language beyond the most obvious aggressive displays. The fact that she's making the effort suggests attention to detail that both impresses and unsettles me.

"Your quarters are near command level," I continue, forcing my tail into deliberate stillness. "You'll have access to common areas and training facilities, though some restricted zones remain off-limits."

"A larger cage, but still a cage," she observes, green eyes meeting mine directly despite the claiming bite's biological pressure toward submission. "With you holding the key."

The continued resistance shouldn't surprise me. Two weeks is insufficient time to process permanent life alteration, particularly one forced rather than chosen. Yet something about her persistent defiance triggers feline instincts I've spent decades suppressing—the urge to demonstrate dominance until submission becomes genuine rather than merely biological.

I suppress the impulse ruthlessly, maintaining commander's detachment despite alpha's irritation. "Your perspective is noted and irrelevant. Your position has been determined based on military necessity and optimal resource allocation."

A flash of genuine anger breaks through her careful composure. "Of course. Everything about me is just resource allocation to you. Just another asset to be cataloged and assigned appropriate value."

The accusation hits with unexpected force, though I keep my expression carefully neutral. "You prefer sentimental alternatives? Forced affection? Pretense of connection beyond biological necessity?"

"I prefer dragons," she snaps, the declaration clearly designed to provoke. "They at least possess majesty alongside their power. Something beyond cold calculation and military precision."

My control slips fractionally, tail lashing once behind me with irritation I cannot fully suppress. The reaction doesn't escape her notice—her eyes tracking the movement with evident satisfaction at having provoked response.

"Dragons," I repeat, allowing edge to enter my tone. "The same dragons who burn omega captives from inside with fire-seed? Who maintain breeding pens where omegas servicemultiple alphas until conception, then discard them once damage becomes too severe?"

Her chin lifts slightly, doubt warring with stubborn commitment to fantasy. "More feline propaganda. You have every reason to paint them as monsters while presenting yourselves as the more civilized option."

"I've seen it with my own eyes," I counter, stepping closer with deliberate intimidation I normally avoid with humans. "During territorial dispute three years ago, we recovered seven omega captives from dragon breeding facility. Three died from internal injuries despite medical intervention. Two suffered permanent reproductive damage from repeated fire-seed exposure. The remaining two required extensive rehabilitation before facility placement."

The graphic details clearly unsettle her, though stubborn resistance remains. "Convenient anecdotes I can't verify. For all I know, those injuries occurred during feline 'rescue' rather than dragon captivity."

My fur bristles along my spine, anger rising despite years of discipline. Without conscious thought, I stretch to full height, skeleton shifting with feline flexibility that no human could match. The movement displays predatory nature I usually take care to minimize around humans, emphasizing the inhuman difference between us.