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"Perfect omega," he praises as I take him completely, his hands gripping my hips while tentacles continue exploring every other part of me. "So eager for my cock now. So beautifully designed for breeding."

After one particularly thorough conditioning session, as Neros' seed leaks from my thoroughly claimed body, I confrontthe most disturbing realization yet. The emptiness that follows our separation isn't relief but profound loss—my altered biology already anticipating our next joining with something uncomfortably close to eagerness.

I press my hand against the luminescent patterns that have colonized my skin, visible proof of transformation that reaches down to my cellular structure. The ghost smuggler built her entire identity around chemical suppression of her nature; without those barriers, who am I becoming?

If my body welcomes what my mind once rejected with every fiber of its being, which response represents my true self?

Most terrifying of all is the creeping suspicion that the division was artificial all along—that beneath years of venom and fierce independence lay biological imperatives just waiting for the right catalyst. That in claiming me, Neros hasn't fundamentally altered my nature but simply revealed what chemical suppression kept hidden, even from myself.

Magic, biology, and fate seem to be collaborating on a joke whose punchline is my complete transformation from everything I once was into something I never imagined I could become.

And the most unsettling part? I'm starting to enjoy the show.

CHAPTER 14

RIVAL CLAIMS

Isla's POV

Fate, as it turns out, has a twisted sense of timing. And possibly a gambling problem.

"Three days." The words drop from Neros' mouth like depth charges, each syllable designed for maximum impact. "I must investigate personally."

My stomach performs an impressive acrobatic routine as I stare at the tactical display floating before us. Each glowing point represents an omega torn from official breeding facilities—my carefully gathered intelligence now illuminating the scope of Vexar's black market empire. The irony isn't lost on me that my former victims are helping me expose someone else's crimes. The universe apparently loves its little jokes.

"Commander Merin will oversee territorial security during my absence," Neros continues, his concealed tentacles creating subtle currents that speak of barely controlled tension. "Your fertility treatments will continue under his supervision."

Merin. The name lands in my consciousness like a stone through glass. Second-in-command with mismatched eyes—one natural, one mechanical replacement that clicks with predatory focus whenever it locks onto me. His blue skin bears jagged,asymmetrical markings that look more like battle scars than the elegant royal patterns flowing beneath Neros' flesh. Most importantly, he watches me during territorial briefings with the kind of hunger that makes my skin crawl.

"Is that a good idea?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady while every instinct I have starts screaming. "I mean, the patrol records show someone on the inside is working with Vexar."

"Merin's been loyal for decades," Neros cuts me off, though his tentacles go still for just a beat too long. "We've served together since I first claimed this territory."

I drop my gaze in practiced submission—a gesture I've learned opens more doors than direct confrontation. "Of course. My apologies for questioning your judgment."

His tentacle slides beneath my chin with familiar authority, lifting my face to meet those molten gold eyes. The touch sends unwanted heat cascading through my transformed nervous system, my body responding to him with the kind of enthusiasm that would be embarrassing if it weren't so damn automatic by now.

"Your fertility treatments are the priority," he says, his voice dropping to that rumble that makes my insides do complicated things. "Keep to the schedule exactly until I get back."

I nod, understanding the command that lurks beneath his words like a shark under calm water. My body belongs to him even in absence—a vessel being meticulously prepared for his eventual return and the biological imperatives that will follow.

When he leaves, taking his presence and protection with him, the entire territory shifts like a predatory ecosystem suddenly missing its apex hunter. The water feels colder somehow, currents moving with different rhythms. Guards patrol with less discipline, lower-ranking krakens venture into spaces usually reserved for royal blood. Everyone sensing the alpha's absence and recalculating their chances accordingly.

Merin emerges from the secondary command chambers like he's been waiting for exactly this moment—a spider finally free to explore the web without interference from the bigger, more dangerous spider who usually runs the operation.

His mechanical eye whirs with obvious focus as it scans my body from head to toe, the examination lacking any pretense of professional detachment. "The breeding specimen needs to be examined," he announces to the guards, trying to sound official but mostly just sounding like someone playing dress-up in daddy's uniform. "Get the treatment chamber ready."

Specimen. Not omega, not mate, not even prisoner. Just specimen—a clinical term that strips away any illusion about how he sees me. The word hits like a slap, reducing me to laboratory equipment with inconvenient opinions.

The treatment chamber feels fundamentally wrong under his supervision. The water moves in unfamiliar patterns, the bioluminescent organisms responding to his presence with agitated flashing instead of their usual gentle glow. I settle onto the examination platform with my heart performing percussion solos against my ribs, acutely aware that I'm about to be very, very alone with someone whose loyalty suddenly seems negotiable.

"You've made some impressive changes," Merin says, his mechanical eye clicking as it runs up and down my body like some kind of perverted scanner. "Lord Neros has been very... hands-on with your development."

His tentacles emerge all at once—eight thick appendages that lack the fluid grace I've grown accustomed to. Where Neros reveals his alien anatomy with controlled purpose, Merin flaunts his like a crude display of dominance designed to intimidate rather than impress. The difference between precision instrument and blunt weapon.

"The treatments need to continue," I say carefully, nodding toward the shelf where Neros keeps his glowing potions. "Today's supposed to be the deep tissue application."

"Ah yes, the famous treatments." Merin's good eye narrows while he grabs a container of the blue-green mixture. "Lord Neros has gotten pretty... personally involved in your conditioning, hasn't he?"