Page 5

The scent of fear had filled my nostrils—not the heady rush of prey-fear that triggers predatory satisfaction, but the sour, acidic terror of innocents facing extinction. A child had looked up at me with wide brown eyes, so different from my own golden ones, yet filled with a humanity I couldn't ignore. My hand had paused in mid-air, the signal to commence firing never completed.

My reward was this "prestigious border command" at Shadowthorn Outpost—close enough to watch the consequences of Confederacy policies unfold, far enough from central command to be effectively silenced. A glorified exile disguised as promotion, and every feline officer in three territories knows it.

I trace the boundary lines with one extended claw, careful not to tear the parchment. The territorial reassignment places Blackridge Settlement firmly under feline jurisdiction after years as contested ground. No wonder they're unhappy. The dragons at least kept their distance, content with tribute rather than direct oversight. The settlement's preference was obvious in their trading patterns, their subtle resistance to feline patrols, their continued use of dragon imagery in their cultural festivals.

And now one of their omegas has presented, just as the territory officially changes hands. The timing couldn't be worse for her. Or for me.

I push away from the desk, stalking to the far wall where floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the mountain range. From this height, Blackridge Settlement appears deceptively peaceful—a collection of wooden and stone structures nestled in the valley below, thin ribbons of smoke rising from communal cookfires. The humans go about their daily routines, perhapsalready whispering about their omega being taken, already calculating what this means for their precarious position.

My tail has settled into the slow, rhythmic sway that officers under my command have learned to recognize as deep contemplation. The omega will arrive within the hour. Standard protocol dictates a brief medical examination, documentation of identifying characteristics, and assignment to a heat-proof holding chamber until biological imperatives have run their course. After that, facility transfer or claiming—the only two options Conquest Law permits.

I've authorized dozens of such transfers during my tenure here. Unclaimed omegas shipped to centralized breeding facilities where they'll be assigned to compatible alphas or used for controlled breeding programs to produce the next generation of hybrids. It's cleaner, more efficient, and infinitely more merciful than forced claiming by a commander with no interest in genuine connection.

My reflection appears again, this time in the tempered glass of the window. The scars along my jaw seem to deepen in the afternoon light, three parallel reminders of how close I once came to death. The dragon fire that nearly took my life ten years ago left other, less visible scars—the reason I sleep poorly, the reason I sometimes wake drenched in sweat with the scent of burning flesh in my nostrils.

What would an omega see, looking at me? A monstrous seven-foot predator, scarred and battle-worn. A failed commander exiled to a forgotten outpost. A creature whose very anatomy would terrify someone who has likely only seen felines from a fearful distance.

For a fleeting moment, my alpha instincts stir at the thought of a newly presented omega—that primal need to claim, to possess, to breed. A tightening in my gut that I haven't allowed myself to acknowledge in years. Immediately, I crush thesensation with practiced discipline. Duty and distaste snuff out the unwelcome flicker before it can take hold.

The thought settles something in me. I have no interest in claiming any omega, but especially not one who would look at me with revulsion and terror. Not one who dreams of dragon claiming while recoiling from feline touch. My pride, what remains of it after years of political maneuvering and eventual exile, refuses to accept such an arrangement.

Better for everyone that she be processed according to protocol and transferred to a facility where at least the illusion of choice might exist. Better than being claimed by a washed-up commander no omega would willingly choose.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.

"Enter," I call, not turning from the window.

"Sir," comes the crisp voice of a junior officer. "The omega has arrived at processing. Medical examination complete. Do you wish to personally review before chamber assignment?"

I consider declining. What difference would it make? The decision is already made—facility transfer after her heat completes. Looking at her would only complicate matters unnecessarily.

And yet, something about Thorne's assessment nags at me. Taller than average. More muscular. Unusual for an omega. For all his political maneuvering, Thorne's tactical observations are rarely wrong.

"I'll be down shortly," I find myself saying.

The polished corridor outside my quarters amplifies sound in ways the stone architecture was specifically designed to achieve. Feline hearing, already significantly more acute than human, can detect conversations three levels below through the cleverly constructed air shafts that double as acoustic channels. As I walk, I catch fragments of conversation from the processing level.

"...fighting the calming agents..."

"...keeps asking about dragon territory..."

"...later presentation than normal..."

My stride lengthens. An omega resistant to standard calming protocols presents potential security concerns, particularly one fixated on reaching dragon territory. The last thing we need is an escape attempt triggering territorial response from our fire-breathing neighbors, especially with boundary lines still settling.

The processing chamber comes into view—a clinically designed space with the sterile scent of medical supplies masking the more interesting pheromones that would otherwise dominate. Three junior officers stand at attention as I enter, their ears flicking forward in response to my arrival.

And there she is. The omega.

She stands with uncharacteristic rigidity for someone in pre-heat, her spine straight despite the restraints at her wrists. Taller than I expected—perhaps 5'8", unusually height for a human female, though still well below my own towering frame. Blonde hair falls in a practical braid rather than the elaborate styles many settlement women favor. Her build suggests regular physical activity—lean muscle along her arms, calluses on her palms visible even from here.

Most striking are her eyes—green with unusual intensity, and currently fixed on me with something beyond the typical fear I'm accustomed to seeing. There's calculation there. Assessment. And beneath it, unmistakable revulsion as she takes in my inhuman features.

Her nostrils flare slightly as she catches my scent, her body's involuntary response to alpha pheromones betraying her despite obvious mental resistance. The subtle flush across her cheekbones deepens, and I detect the first hints of responsive omega scent breaking through the herbal masking agents she's clearly used.

"Commander Clawe," she says, her voice steadier than expected. "I've heard of you."

Not the cowering response typical of newly captured omegas. Interesting. The girl has spine, I'll grant her that.