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"Fourteen months," he admits without hesitation. "Your methods were different from other smugglers. More sophisticated. More adaptive." A pause, then: "Your use of kraken venom as suppressant was particularly... impressive. Dangerous, but effective."

Again, that unwanted flutter of pride at professional recognition from an unlikely source. "Desperate times, desperate measures."

"Indeed." His golden eyes study me with an intensity that transcends mere physical assessment. "You're not like other omegas we've captured. Most lack the strategic mind to contribute beyond breeding."

"How nice that you appreciate me for my brain as well as my womb," I reply, unable to keep bitterness from my voice despite the strange rapport developing between us.

"It's not kindness but practicality," Neros counters, moving closer until his scent envelops me in familiar alpha pheromones. "Wasting a mind like yours solely on breeding would be poor resource management."

The holographic display shifts to show new tracking data—suspected movement patterns of rival lords' vessels intersecting with known smuggling routes. As I lean forward to examine the projection, something shifts within me—a subtle warmth blooming at my core and radiating outward like someone just lit a very specific biological fuse. A prickling sensitivity spreads across my skin, making the water currents suddenly feel too intense against my nerve endings.

My scent changes, subtly at first, then with gathering intensity. Neros goes completely still, his nostrils flaring as hedetects the shift. His eyes lock onto mine, pupils dilating from vertical slits to consuming the golden irises almost completely.

No. Not now. It's too soon.

But my body has its own agenda, independent of my will or biological norms—like a very enthusiastic personal assistant who's decided to reorganize my schedule without consulting me. The first unmistakable sign of approaching heat builds within me—a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with biology's ruthless imperative. The luminescent patterns beneath my skin pulse faster, brighter, announcing to any alpha in vicinity that an omega approaches fertility with all the subtlety of a neon sign.

Neros inhales deeply, his own scent shifting in response to mine—alpha pheromones intensifying to match omega readiness like some kind of biological call-and-response system designed by someone with a very specific sense of humor.

"Your cycle accelerates," he observes, voice dropping to that register that vibrates through water and bone. "Your body synchronizes to mine."

And just like that, our strategic planning session is about to become something else entirely. Because apparently my biology has decided that political intrigue is less important than making sure I get thoroughly claimed again.

The universe really does have a sense of humor, and today it's laughing at me.

CHAPTER 11

SECOND HEAT

ISLA'S POV

"Your cycle accelerates,"Neros says, his voice dropping to that bone-deep rumble that seems to vibrate through the water between us like a biological tuning fork with very specific ideas about my immediate future. "Your body synchronizes to mine."

I back away from the holographic display, pressing my palm against my abdomen where the heat builds like a gathering storm with all the subtlety of a volcanic eruption in my endocrine system. "No," I manage, though the protest sounds hollow even to my own ears. "It's too soon. It can't be happening already."

His nostrils flare as he draws in my changing scent, pupils dilating until his golden eyes are nearly black with hunger. "Your body disagrees," he says, advancing slowly through the water, his massive form suddenly seeming to fill the entire chamber like a very large, very dangerous weather system. "It knows what it needs now."

"We're not finished discussing the smuggling routes," I say desperately, clinging to strategic analysis like a drowningwoman grasping at flotsam. But the holographic display blurs before my eyes as another wave of heat crashes through me, more intense than the first—because apparently my biology has decided that political intrigue is boring compared to the pressing matter of getting thoroughly claimed.

"The discussion is over," Neros growls, his skin darkening to midnight blue as his own biology responds to my pheromones like a very enthusiastic participant in the universe's most overwhelming chemical conversation. The bioluminescent patterns along his arms and chest pulse faster, brighter, an answering call to the markings spreading beneath my own skin. "Your heat demands attention. Now."

He moves with predatory grace, seven feet of primal alpha strength cutting through the water with barely a ripple. Before I can retreat further, his tentacles emerge—not just two or three but six, each thicker than my wrist, undulating with menacing purpose as they reach for me like very polite but insistent party guests who've decided I'm the entertainment.

"Don't fight it," he commands as two tentacles wrap around my wrists, pulling my arms wide and exposing my body to his hungry gaze. Another slides around my waist, lifting me effortlessly until we're face to face, my feet dangling uselessly above the floor. "You'll only make it worse."

The size difference between us is obscene—my entire body could fit within the span of his chest and arms like a very inappropriate doll in a very large toy box. The strength differential more so, his single tentacle able to restrain me completely without apparent effort. The knowledge should terrify me, but instead sends another flood of slick between my thighs, my omega biology responding to alpha dominance with shameful eagerness.

Without warning, he pulls me against his massive chest, one hand tangling in my hair to tilt my face upward. His mouthclaims mine in a kiss that's nothing like human affection—demanding, invasive, his tongue pushing past my lips to stake ownership of this territory too. The taste of him floods my senses—salt and something uniquely him that triggers cascading memories of previous joinings. I should bite, should fight, should resist this intimate invasion. Instead, I find myself yielding, my lips parting to grant deeper access, my tongue meeting his in a dance of submission that feels like another form of claiming.

"I'm taking you to the claiming chamber," he states when he finally breaks the kiss, not a question or suggestion but simple fact delivered with the confidence of someone who's never met a problem he couldn't solve through superior tentacle coordination. His tentacles secure me against his massive chest as he moves through the corridors of his territory, my feeble struggles nothing but token resistance against his overwhelming strength.

By the time we reach the claiming chamber, my heat has fully ignited like a biological wildfire that's decided my nervous system makes excellent kindling. My skin burns from within, nerve endings raw and hypersensitive. Between my thighs, slick flows in quantities that seem to violate several laws of physics, my body preparing itself for penetration with humiliating eagerness. The emptiness inside me becomes an aching void that demands filling, a primal need that overwhelms rational thought like a very insistent biological imperative with excellent timing.

Unlike my first heat, triggered by suppressant failure and withdrawal, this is something more disturbing—a genuine biological response to compatible alpha pheromones. My body recognizes Neros now, anticipates him, prepares for him with an efficiency that feels like the ultimate betrayal by my own circulatory system.

He doesn't place me on the claiming platform as before. Instead, his tentacles arrange me in the center of the chamber, suspending me in the water with my arms stretched wide, legs spread, completely exposed to his predatory assessment like a very naked, very aroused exhibit in the universe's most uncomfortable museum.

"Look how wet you are for me already," he says, one tentacle sliding between my thighs to gather the evidence of my arousal. The sensation of those suction cups against my most intimate flesh draws an involuntary whimper from my throat. "Your cunt weeps for my cock."