Page 52

"In a way that only happens when..." The words stick in my throat. How do I tell her? What right do I have to be pleased by what she might consider the ultimate violation?

"When what, Fritz?" She uses my name, not title, the intimacy of it surprising us both.

"When an omega is carrying young." The words finally come out, raw and honest. "You're pregnant, Aria. Have been for about three weeks now."

Her eyes widen, her hand instinctively dropping to her still-flat stomach. "I'm... pregnant?"

"Yes." I brace for disgust, for rage, for renewed hatred of the feline alpha who's inflicted this final indignity upon her.

Instead, her scent blossoms with something unexpected—not horror or revulsion, but a complex mixture of shock, wonder, and something that smells remarkably like... satisfaction.

"I thought my cycle timing was off," she murmurs, looking down at her own body as though seeing it anew. "I assumed stress from the territorial conflicts had disrupted it."

"You're not... horrified?" I can't keep the question contained, my tail betraying my agitation with sharp, jerky movements.

Her eyes rise to meet mine, the moonlight reflecting in them like silver fire. "I should be, shouldn't I?" A small, puzzled laugh escapes her. "The reluctant omega, claimed against her will, now carrying the child of her captor. It's the perfect nightmare."

I remain silent, uncertain how to navigate this unexpected reaction, afraid to hope for what her scent suggests.

"But I'm not," she continues, wonder coloring her voice. "I'm not horrified or disgusted or any of the things I should logically be." Her hand remains pressed against her abdomen. "This feels... right, somehow. Like the next step in whatever strange journey we've been on since that first claiming."

The admission steals the breath from my lungs. My restraint—maintained through weeks of detecting the changes in her body, the growing life within her—finally breaks. My hand completes its arrested motion, coming to rest gently against her middle. The warmth of her seeps through the thin fabric of her clothing, and beneath it, the faintest trace of a new life—my offspring—growing within her.

"I should have told you sooner," I admit, my voice dropping to that deeper register that comes out when emotion threatens my control. "I've known for weeks. But I feared your reaction."

"How long have you known?" Her hand covers mine, keeping it pressed against her stomach rather than pushing it away as I'd expected.

"Since just after your last heat. Feline senses detect the chemical changes almost immediately."

"And you said nothing." Not an accusation, merely an observation.

"I thought you'd see it as the final violation. The ultimate proof of your captivity." My claws retract fully, ensuring not even the slightest pressure against her skin as my palm spreads wider over where our child grows. "I couldn't bear to see the disgust in your eyes."

"Fritz." My name again, spoken with a gentleness I've never heard from her before. "Look at me."

I raise my eyes to hers, finding not disgust but something that makes my breath catch—acceptance. Perhaps even pleasure.

"I'm carrying your child," she says, as though testing the words. "Our child. A hybrid born of claiming that began as necessity but has become... something else entirely."

The simple acknowledgment shatters something inside me—some final barrier between commander and omega, between captor and captive. My free hand rises to cup her face, my thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone with a gentleness few would believe possible from a battle-scarred feline commander.

"Something else entirely," I agree, my voice barely recognizable even to myself.

When she leans into my touch rather than pulling away, the last thread of my control unravels. The knowledge that she carries my offspring, that her body nurtures our shared legacy, triggers instincts I've suppressed since that first claiming. Protect. Provide. Possess. Claim.

I step closer, eliminating the careful distance we've maintained for weeks. My tail moves of its own accord, wrapping lightly around her waist in a possessive gesture I would never have dared before this moment. When she doesn't tense or pull away, something primal and satisfied rumbles in my chest.

"Your scent," she murmurs, her pupils dilating slightly. "It's changing."

Of course it is. The knowledge that she carries my young, combined with her acceptance rather than rejection, triggers responses I can't control. My scent would be broadcasting unmistakable possessive claim, territorial dominance, and—most dangerously—arousal.

"I should go," I manage, though every muscle in my body screams against retreating. "This is... overwhelming for both of us."

"Don't." Her hand rises to my chest, pressing against the spot where my heart thunders beneath muscle and bone. "Stay."

The single word destroys the last of my resistance. My mouth finds hers with hunger I've never allowed myself to show during our previous claimings. This isn't the methodical breeding of heat cycles, but something deeper, more primal—the claiming of what is mine not merely by circumstance but by choice.

Her lips yield beneath mine, soft where I am hard, giving where I am demanding. My tongue, rougher than a human's, traces the seam of her mouth before she opens to me with a sigh that vibrates through my entire body. The taste of her—sweet with undertones unique to her chemistry—floods my senses, creating an intoxication more potent than any battle rage.