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"How?" I finally ask after releasing the breath, more disturbed by this transformation than by the glowing patterns. Breathing defines mammalian life; this alteration strikes at something fundamental.

"New cells in your lungs," Neros explains, watching my reaction carefully. "They pull oxygen straight from the water, like our gills do, but inside your human lungs."

Hybrid. The word settles in my consciousness like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples of implication outward. Not just claimed, but fundamentally altered. Not just prisoner, but becoming something else entirely—which is either evolution or the universe's most elaborate practical joke.

"I didn't agree to this." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"Your body agreed for you," Neros counters, one tentacle emerging to trace the patterns on my exposed arm with the casual possessiveness of someone who's decided I'm his personal science project. "It knows this makes you stronger, better suited to survive here. Your mind just hasn't caught up yet."

I pull away from his touch, needing distance to maintain clarity. "My body isn't me."

His expression shifts to something like patience with an edge of amusement. "Isn't it? That's a convenient way to deny what's happening—pretending your body's choices aren't really yours."

The worst part is that I can't summon a convincing counter-argument. After what happened during my heat peak—the begging, the pleasure, the willing participation—the line between my body's responses and my "true self" feels increasingly arbitrary, like trying to separate the ocean from its waves.

"Come," Neros says, extending a hand rather than simply commanding. "You should know something about the world you're part of now."

I want to refuse on principle, but curiosity wins over defiance—which seems to be becoming a disturbing pattern in my decision-making process. I rise, wrapping the covering around myself, and follow him from the recovery chamber into wider corridors carved from living rock.

The passageways open into an expansive chamber I haven't seen before—clearly some kind of knowledge repository that would make any library jealous. The walls contain embedded data screens displaying complex three-dimensional maps, charts, and text in a written language I don't recognize but somehow feel I could almost understand, like my brain is being upgraded with software I didn't install. The water here flows in carefully engineered currents, creating paths that guide movement throughout the space.

"Our territory covers what humans used to call the Pacific coastline," Neros begins, activating a holographic map that materializes in the water between us. Glowing boundaries define territories extending from shoreline to deep ocean trenches. "Unlike land-dwellers with their fixed borders, our boundaries shift with the tides and currents."

I study the map with strategic interest, mentally comparing it to resistance intelligence while trying not to be too impressed by the technology. "These different colored sections—they're controlled by different kraken families?"

Neros nods, something like approval flickering across his features. "Yes. Each bloodline controls its own region. We function together as the Oceanic Sovereignty, but each lord rules their own waters." He indicates a section near the former Oregon coast. "This is mine—not the largest, but valuable because of the underwater mountains and trenches."

For the next several hours, he methodically educates me on kraken society—the complex hierarchy based on bloodline purity, the political maneuvering between rival lords, the enforcement squads that maintain order. I absorb the information with the tactical focus that kept me alive for ten years, looking for weaknesses, for leverage, for anything that might be useful if I ever decide to stop being quite so cooperative.

"As my claimed mate, no other kraken can touch you," Neros explains, his tentacles shifting through the water in what I'm beginning to recognize as expressions of emphasis. "You have my protection."

"How generous," I mutter, unable to entirely suppress my bitterness. "Protected property."

"More than property," he corrects, his golden eyes fixing on mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. "The mate of a royal bloodline holds influence. Once you've proven your value through breeding and information, you'll have privileges no human has had since the Conquest."

The casual assumption that I'll be both brood mare and informant sends a flare of the old defiance through me like a dying ember finding oxygen. "Bold of you to assume I'll play along long-term."

Instead of anger, my rebellion triggers something like amusement. "You already are. Your body is changing to match mine. Your mind will follow."

Before I can formulate a properly scathing response, he moves closer, his scent enveloping me in familiar alpha pheromones. Not the overwhelming flood of my heat period, but a subtle reminder of biological compatibility that my newly sensitive receptors pick up with embarrassing efficiency. My body responds with immediate enthusiasm—nipples hardening beneath the thin covering, slick gathering between my thighs.

"Your heat's over, but the claiming continues," he says, voice dropping to the deep register that vibrates through water and bone. "Your body needs regular attention to adapt fully."

"I'm not in heat anymore," I protest, even as my body prepares for him with treacherous efficiency. "There's no biological need now."

"Isn't there?" His hand cups my face with surprising gentleness, thumb tracing my lower lip. "Your scent says otherwise. Your body remembers what it needs."

When his mouth covers mine, the kiss feels shockingly intimate—more invasive somehow than the physical claiming of heat. His taste floods my senses, salt and something uniquely him that triggers memory cascades of our previous joinings. Without the desperate urgency of heat, I can focus on each sensation with disturbing clarity—the slight roughness of his tongue as it slides against mine, the pressure of his lips that feels both alien and strangely familiar.

His tentacles emerge to wrap around me, not restraining but supporting, cradling my body against his much larger form. They slide beneath the covering, peeling it away with methodical precision until I'm naked again, exposed to his golden gaze. The cool water flows across my heated skin, carrying his scent to every pore, every nerve ending.

"Look how wet you are for me," Neros growls, his voice deepening as his eyes fix on the slick gathering between my thighs. "Your cunt weeps for me even without heat. Your body knows who it belongs to now."

I want to deny it, but the evidence is undeniable. Without chemical suppressants, without the overwhelming drive of heat, my omega biology still recognizes this alpha as its match. Still prepares for his claiming with eager efficiency that makes mockery of my mental resistance.

His tentacles slide across my skin, leaving trails of tingling awareness in their wake. One wraps around my waist, another cradles the back of my neck, while two more curl around my thighs, spreading them with deliberate intent. The suction cups along their length create exquisite pressure against my most sensitive areas—the inner curve of my breasts, the hollow of my throat, the junction where thigh meets hip.

"Please," I whisper, not sure if I'm begging for him to stop or continue. My body has already decided, slick gathering in such abundance that it creates iridescent clouds in the water between us.