Page 12

"Fishing communities track temperature changes to follow migrations," I lie smoothly, drawing on a decade of experience in creative truth management. "The equipment interferes with normal readings."

He doesn't call me on the deception but activates a communication panel on the wall, probably because he's smart enough to know that confirmation is worth more than accusations. He speaks in a language I can't fully understand—partly verbal sounds, partly light patterns pulsing across his skin like some kind of biological morse code. The sight reminds me of the matching patterns now spreading beneath my own skin, which is both fascinating and deeply annoying.

"Enforcement will verify your information," he says after closing the communication with the efficiency of someone who's had a lot of practice at coordinating military operations. "If accurate, I'll fulfill my part of our arrangement."

The room suddenly feels too hot, like someone's cranked up the thermostat in hell. Sweat breaks out across my forehead despite the water-cooled environment. Between my legs, the emptiness becomes an ache so intense I can barely think, like my body's decided to stage a very specific rebellion against my conscious mind.

My heat, building again already. Because apparently my biology has decided that once per day is for quitters.

Neros scents the change immediately. His nostrils flare and his skin darkens—the kraken equivalent of arousal—like a very large, very dangerous mood ring. "Your heat intensifies," he says, voice dropping to a lower register that vibrates through the water between us like a tuning fork designed specifically to make me uncomfortable.

"Finish our bargain first," I manage, desperate to maintain this moment where I'm still a person with agency rather than just a hole to be filled on someone's very specific schedule. "The escaped pod. Did they make it?"

Something shifts in his expression—respect, maybe, or possibly just surprise that I can still prioritize other people's welfare while my body is staging its own biological coup. He activates his data tablet again with the casual efficiency of someone checking the weather.

"The escape pod reached neutral territory six hours after separation," he says, showing me a tracking map of the small vessel's journey like he's presenting a very encouraging progress report. "Your diversion worked. No pursuit vessels detected them through the Devil's Teeth."

Relief floods through me, so powerful it momentarily drowns out even the heat building between my legs like a biological fire that's decided to get really ambitious. Six omegas safe. Six people who won't experience what I did last night. Almost worth the price I'm paying, which is honestly a pretty fucked up cost-benefit analysis but I'll take what victories I can get.

"Toran?" I ask, unable to stop myself from caring about the grizzled bastard who's been my anchor for ten years.

"Maintaining stealth protocols," Neros answers, surprising me with this additional information like a particularly generous customer service representative. "Last tracked heading toward your Sanctuary Point."

Before I can respond, the communication panel chimes with the enthusiasm of technology that's just delivered good news. Neros checks the incoming message, satisfaction evident in the brightening patterns across his skin like a very smug Christmas tree.

"The safe house contained exactly what you described," he confirms, eyes locking with mine. "Your information is accurate."

Something forms between us in this moment—not trust exactly, but acknowledgment. I've kept my word; he's kept his. Neither of us mentions what we both know: I've revealed only what can be sacrificed, and he's likely holding back the full extent of his surveillance. It's the kind of professional respect that develops between very competent people who are trying to destroy each other's lives.

The moment shatters as another wave of heat slams through me like a biological freight train with very specific destination plans. It's different this time—more intense, more focused, like my body's decided that subtlety is for amateurs. My back arches without my permission, a whimper escaping my lips as slickfloods between my thighs. My skin feels too tight, too hot, too sensitive, like I'm wearing a sweater made of nerve endings.

"Fuck," I gasp, clutching at the platform as the room spins around me like reality's decided to become a very uncomfortable carnival ride.

"Second phase," Neros growls, and his voice has changed—deeper, rougher, edged with the same need building in me like we're both instruments in the universe's most overwhelming orchestra. "Your body remembers last night's claiming and wants more."

His scent grows stronger, flooding the water around us. Not just alpha, but alpha in rut—responding to my heat with biological imperative as ancient as the ocean itself. His skin darkens further, bioluminescent patterns pulsing with increased intensity like a very aroused disco ball, and the lower portion of his body begins to shift form.

"No," I say weakly, but my body betrays me completely with the enthusiasm of a double agent who's really committed to the role. My thighs part without my permission. Slick gathers so abundantly I can feel it running down my inner thighs like my biology's idea of very enthusiastic applause. My nipples harden to painful points, begging for the rough attention of his tentacles. "I don't want this."

"Your body disagrees," Neros says, moving closer until his massive form looms over me like a very attractive storm cloud with tentacles. "Your mind clings to resistance while your cunt weeps for my cock."

The crude words should disgust me. Instead, they send another rush of slick between my legs, my inner muscles clenching around emptiness with painful need like my body's decided to become a very enthusiastic advertising campaign for his services.

"The claiming chamber—" he begins, reaching for me with the kind of predatory intent that makes my brain scream warnings my body has apparently decided to ignore.

"Here," I interrupt, the word bursting from me like a confession I didn't mean to make. "Just... do it here. Get it over with."

His golden eyes narrow, pupils contracting to vertical slits as he studies my face like I'm a particularly interesting puzzle he's just figured out. The claiming chamber represents complete surrender, purpose-built for breeding with all the ceremonial implications that suggests. This recovery space maintains some thin illusion that what happens is necessity rather than ritual conquest.

"As you wish," he finally agrees, his form shifting as multiple tentacles emerge from his lower body, writhing with predatory purpose that makes my mouth go dry.

Unlike last night, there are no restraints holding me down, no platform angling my body for optimal penetration. But when his tentacles wrap around my thighs to spread them wider, I don't fight. When his hands grasp my hips to position me, I move with him rather than against him, which probably says something deeply unflattering about my survival instincts.

"Your body learns quickly," he says, satisfaction rumbling through his voice as I present without mechanical assistance. "No aphrodisiac needed this time."

I watch with horrified fascination as his cock emerges from its concealed sheath, already fully extended like some kind of biological magic trick designed by someone with very specific ideas about intimidation. Impossibly thick, the textured ridges spiraling along its length pulse with the same bioluminescent patterns that mark his skin. The head flares wider than the shaft, designed to stimulate every sensitive spot inside me with theefficiency of something that's had millions of years to perfect its technique.

After last night's agony, the sight should terrify me. Instead, my cunt clenches with eager anticipation, producing more slick as if welcoming an old lover rather than a conqueror, which is honestly the most disturbing development in a day full of disturbing developments.