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Without it, our child will die.

The realization crawls through my awareness like infection, settling into the deepest recesses of my psyche where maternal instinct hibernates. Every cell in my body suddenly screams for Neros' touch, not from conditioning or biological programming, but from genuine necessity that transcends every boundary I've maintained.

I need him. Desperately. Completely.

When Neros enters the chamber, his golden eyes immediately catalog my distress. The bioluminescent patterns beneath his skin pulse with responding urgency, his own biology recognizing the crisis even before conscious thought processes the visual cues.

"How long?" His voice carries clinical precision, but I taste deeper currents of genuine concern through our psychic bridge.

"Since dawn." The words scrape against my throat like broken shells. "It's getting worse every hour."

He moves through the water with fluid grace, tentacles creating currents that carry his scent directly to my hypersensitive receptors. My body responds with immediate relief—not arousal, though that follows, but something deeper. Recognition. Homeostasis returning to systems pushed beyond their operational limits.

"The hormonal requirements intensify during final development," he explains, his massive form settling beside me while one tentacle curls around my distended belly with careful pressure. "Direct contact becomes essential for neural pathway completion."

Through the tentacle pressed against my skin, I feel the first pulse of chemical transfer—specialized compounds my hybrid physiology cannot produce independently. The baby's distressimmediately diminishes, its frantic movement settling to normal rhythms as essential nutrients flood its developing system.

But the relief is temporary. Minutes pass before the hunger returns, more intense than before.

"It's not enough," I gasp, my voice breaking as the craving tears through my consciousness again. "The baby needs more."

Neros' expression darkens with understanding that carries the weight of species knowledge I lack. Through our connection, I glimpse fragments of kraken reproductive biology—the complex biochemical dance between pregnant mate and alpha male that ensures hybrid offspring receive essential developmental support.

"Full contact," he says simply. "Complete integration during hormonal transfer."

The implications crystallize with devastating clarity. Not claiming for pleasure or dominance, but intimate connection essential for our child's survival. The biological dependency I've feared since capture has become literal necessity, my body requiring his presence to sustain the life growing inside me.

"Do it." The surrender comes without struggle, maternal instinct overriding every other consideration. "Whatever the baby needs."

His tentacles lift me from the chamber floor with impossible gentleness, supporting my pregnant weight while positioning me against his massive torso. But this isn't the predatory claiming I've experienced countless times before. His movements carry reverent care, protective instinct that prioritizes my comfort alongside the baby's needs.

When his cock emerges from its sheath, I feel the difference immediately. Not the textured weapon designed for conquest, but something approaching tender offering. His body recognizes my vulnerability, adapting its responses to provide maximum hormonal benefit with minimal physical stress.

"Tell me if it hurts," he requests, and the concern in his voice catches me off guard. Alpha consideration for omega comfort during claiming feels like evolution in real time.

He enters me with careful precision, his massive length filling my channel completely but without the brutal force of previous sessions. My transformed body welcomes the invasion with desperate relief, every cell responding to the chemical transfer that flows through intimate contact.

The hormonal flood hits my bloodstream like medicine, carrying compounds my hybrid physiology craves with addiction-level intensity. Through our neural bridge, I feel the baby's immediate response—distress dissolving into contentment as essential nutrients reach its developing consciousness.

"Better?" Neros asks, his voice rough as he stills inside me, allowing the hormonal transfer to work its magic.

"God, yes," I breathe, my body going limp with relief as the baby's panic subsides. "How often will this happen?"

"Daily, as the birth approaches," he explains, beginning a slow, careful rhythm that maximizes hormonal output. "The final weeks require constant contact to ensure proper development."

The knowledge should terrify me—complete dependency on his presence for our child's survival. Instead, I find myself accepting it with something approaching relief. No more pretending this is temporary. No more fighting what my body has become.

"I need you," I whisper, the admission tearing free from some deep place I've kept locked since capture. "Not just for this. For everything."

His rhythm falters, golden eyes widening at my voluntary confession. "Isla..."

"I love you." The words spill out like water through a broken dam, impossible to stop or take back. "I don't know when it happened, but I do. I love you, and I love what we've built together."

The confession transforms his careful thrusts into something deeper, more profound. His consciousness flows through our connection with unprecedented intimacy, carrying emotional resonance I've never accessed before.

Through his awareness, I experience my own transformation from his perspective—not conquered omega but essential partner in unprecedented evolutionary synthesis. He sees my intelligence, my adaptation, my fierce protectiveness toward our child as qualities that complement rather than threaten his alpha nature.

"You were never truly captive," he whispers against my throat, his voice carrying emotional vulnerability. "Even when you believed yourself conquered, you were choosing to stay. For the baby. For us."