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The military update seems to satisfy something essential in him. His muscles relax slightly, letting me slide an arm behind his shoulders to help him drink. The weight of him—the solid mass of muscle beneath matted fur—reminds me how different our bodies really are. What looks like lean strength when he's moving reveals itself as dense, powerful muscle when I'm supporting his injured body.

"Settlement status?" he asks after drinking, still thinking beyond immediate battle concerns to the human village under his protection.

"Everyone returned to Blackridge yesterday with guards. We're giving them food from fortress stores to make up for the crops they couldn't harvest." I set the flask down and begin unwrapping the dirty bandages around his chest. "Elder Nyssa sends thanks for the guards. And more healing salve."

Something that might be satisfaction flickers across his face before pain takes over as I peel away bandages stuck to raw flesh. The dragon fire burns along his left side have started to heal, but slowly—the magical properties of the flame specially designed to cause maximum damage to rival Primes.

During these intimate nursing sessions, I've discovered things about his body I never noticed during our heat times. How his temperature rises when healing, several degrees higher than his already hot feline normal. The way his fur patterns get more pronounced when he dreams, black stripes darkening against the golden-brown background as if his body prepares for battle even in sleep. The subtle differences in his bone structure visible through damaged skin—denser, with unique ridges for muscle attachment that no human skeleton would have.

Most revealing are the extensive scars that map his body like a physical history book. Beyond the fresh wounds, his skin carries evidence of decades of warfare—older burns from previous dragon fire along his right side, claw marks across his shoulder blades that could only come from other felines during dominance fights, and most disturbing, a series of thin, precise knife wounds that could only have been made by human weapons at close range.

"What are you thinking?" Fritz asks, his keen senses no doubt catching the change in my scent as I look at these physical records of violence.

"That your body tells more stories than you ever say out loud," I answer honestly, fingers working to apply fresh salve to the healing burns.

His tail twitches slightly—the only movement he allows himself despite the pain I know my touch causes. "War leaves marks."

"These weren't all from war." My fingers trace the pattern of knife wounds across his stomach—too deliberate to be battlefield injuries, too precise to be accidents. "These were... interrogation, weren't they?"

His eyes hold mine for a long moment before he answers. "Early resistance capture. Before proper integration of Prime territories."

The simple answer creates complex understanding. He doesn't explain further, doesn't need to. I can read the implications in the scars themselves—captured by human resistance fighters, subjected to questioning that left permanent marks even on his enhanced body. Yet here he lies, allowing those same human hands to tend his wounds with complete trust.

"You've never feared humans," I realize suddenly. "Even when you should have."

A sound that might be a laugh in a less injured being rumbles through his chest. "Respect isn't fear."

The distinction matters—explains his approach to leadership, his treatment of the settlement, his refusal to kill civilians despite Confederation orders. What I once saw as cold indifference turns out to be something more complicated—respect for potential threat rather than dismissal of lesser beings.

"These need fresh wrapping," I say, refocusing on the practical task of wound care. "The salve is working, but slowly. Dragon fire is designed to linger."

As I lean across his body to reach the worst of the burns, his scent surrounds me—the distinctive musk of alpha feline now mixed with medicine herbs, blood, and the unique smell of healing. Despite the circumstances, my body responds embarrassingly, a flush of heat spreading beneath my skin that has nothing to do with the room's temperature.

His nostrils flare slightly, definitely catching my involuntary reaction. Even injured, his senses stay unnaturally sharp.

"Your scent has changed," he says, voice dropping to a lower register that vibrates through me like an actual touch. "Since finding out about your pregnancy."

My hand pauses against his side, the reminder of what grows inside me—our child—creating fresh awareness of theconnection between us that goes beyond captor and captive, commander and claimed omega.

"Has it?" I keep my tone neutral, though the rapid beating of my heart would give me away to his sharp hearing.

"Sweeter. Richer." His eyes track my movements with predatory focus that belies his injuries. "More... mine."

The possessive claim should anger me, should remind me of forced circumstances and biological urges beyond my control. Instead, it creates an answering heat low in my belly, a response that has nothing to do with heat cycles and everything to do with the complicated reality we've created between us.

"The settlement healers say pregnancy changes many things." I try to redirect the conversation as I finish applying the last fresh bandages, trying to ignore how my fingers tremble slightly against his fur.

"Pregnancy is only part of it." He catches my wrist as I pull back, moving startlingly fast for someone so injured. "Your body knows what your mind still struggles with."

The contact sends electricity racing up my arm. His claws remain carefully sheathed despite the predatory grip, his control of his dangerous nature so complete that not even half-conscious defense reflexes override it.

Three days of tending his wounds, of seeing vulnerability no one else at Shadowthorn has been allowed to witness, of putting together the history written in scars across his body—it's created understanding I never expected when first claimed by this supposed monster.

"And what is that?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper.

His thumb traces small circles against my pulse point, feeling the racing beat beneath my fragile human skin. "That we've become something neither of us expected."

The simple truth breaks through my carefully maintained distance. I've spent three days caring for his battered body,discovering the physical reality beneath command presence and alpha dominance. The warrior capable of tearing dragons apart with bare hands who wakes from fever sleep with enough control to pull back lethal claws before they can scratch my skin. The commander who pushed himself beyond reasonable limits to protect not just his fortress but human settlements under his care.