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The bargain I agreed to in desperation now seems like the only rational choice in a world gone mad with biological imperatives I can no longer deny. My body has made its decision, and my mind is finally beginning to follow like a very reluctant but ultimately practical passenger on a train that's already left the station.

The ghost smuggler is officially out of business, and apparently, I'm about to start a new career in being owned by something that could probably bench press a submarine. Life takes such interesting turns when you're not paying attention.

CHAPTER 6

FIRST SURRENDER

ISLA'S POV

The platform'ssurface shifts beneath me with the enthusiasm of furniture that's taken a very personal interest in my humiliation, angles changing as my hips rise higher, my body presented like an offering on an altar of submission that I definitely didn't sign up for. Neros towers above me, his midnight-blue skin darkening to near-black as his luminescent patterns pulse with the unmistakable rhythm of rut—like a biological light show designed by someone with very specific ideas about intimidation.

The restraints bite into my wrists and ankles, holding me splayed open, vulnerable in ways I've spent a decade avoiding through venom and vigilance and a healthy dose of paranoid lifestyle choices. Apparently, all that careful planning has led me directly to becoming someone's very elaborate science experiment in omega biology.

The air around us thickens with his pheromones—dominant alpha musk that slams into my newly awakened omega senses like a physical blow from the universe's most overwhelming cologne. My glands throb painfully at my neck, wrists, and innerthighs, weeping omega scent in helpless response. Each breath I take carries more of his essence deeper into my lungs, triggering biological responses I cannot control and frankly find deeply annoying.

"Your resistance is just for show," he says, vertical pupils dilating as his golden eyes fix on the slick gathering between my thighs despite my mind's desperate rejection of this entire situation. "Your scent reveals truth your words deny. You're already dripping for me."

I turn my face away, unwilling to watch what's about to happen, unable to bear the hunger in his gaze that suggests he's been looking forward to this moment for quite some time. "Go to hell."

My defiance triggers something primal in him—his skin darkens further as a growl erupts from deep in his chest, reverberating through the water around us. The sound itself seems to penetrate my skin, settling deep in my bones with a resonance that makes my empty channel clench painfully around nothing, which is both terrifying and deeply unfair.

"Such spirit," he murmurs, tentacles gliding over my exposed flesh with exploratory precision that would be impressive if it weren't happening to me. "Even now, you fight what your body craves. But your heat is rising, little omega. Can you feel it burning through your veins?"

And I can—the unmistakable fever of heat crawling beneath my skin like liquid fire designed by someone with a very twisted sense of biological humor. My suppressants aren't just gone; they're being actively purged by my own biology, desperate to fulfill its purpose after years of chemical denial. Apparently, my body has decided to become a very enthusiastic traitor at the worst possible moment.

The tentacles move with unnerving coordination—some maintaining their grip on my limbs while others map everyinch of my skin like they're conducting the universe's most intimate survey. One traces the curve of my breast, circling but never quite touching my nipple until it pebbles painfully with anticipation. Another slides along my inner thigh, so close to my center that I bite my lip until I taste blood, fighting the urge to arch toward it, to present for breeding like the omega my body insists I am.

"I don't crave anything from you," I spit, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears. My traitor body flushes hot despite the cool water, slick gathering in such shameful abundance that I feel it streaming down my inner thighs. The scent of my arousal rises to mingle with his, creating a chemical dialogue of desire that needs no words and apparently has no respect for my personal opinions on the matter.

His tentacle finally brushes across my nipple, and I can't suppress the moan that escapes me like a very unwelcome confession. The touch sends a jolt of unwanted pleasure straight to my core, my back arching involuntarily to press harder against the stimulation. A satisfied rumble emanates from Neros' chest, his bioluminescent patterns flashing brighter in response to my surrender.

"Your body knows its purpose," he says, leaning closer until his scent envelops me completely. It fills my senses—salt and brine and something else, something uniquelyhimthat makes my omega hindbrain howl for more, for deeper connection, for breeding. "Ten years of denial ends tonight. Tonight you become what you were always meant to be—a vessel for my seed, a cradle for my offspring."

When my verbal protests continue despite my body's increasingly enthusiastic participation in its own betrayal, the platform itself becomes an extension of his will. Mechanical tentacles emerge from hidden compartments like the universe's most uncomfortable surprise party, one forcing my mouth openwhile another delivers a bitter substance directly to my tongue. I try to spit it out, but the appendage holds firm until I'm forced to swallow, the liquid burning a path down my throat.

"Kraken aphrodisiac," Neros explains, watching with clinical interest as the compound works through my system like a very dedicated biological hacker. "It eliminates the barrier between mind and body, between resistance and surrender. Your struggle against biological imperative wastes energy better used for breeding."

The effect is immediate and devastating. Heat erupts from my core outward, transforming into liquid fire that races through my veins, consuming rational thought in its wake like a very efficient civilizational collapse happening entirely within my nervous system. The sensation isn't like the burning of venom suppressants—this is pleasure so intense it borders on agony, amplifying every sensation until I can feel the subtle currents of water against my skin like thousands of tongues licking across every nerve ending simultaneously.

My back arches off the platform, a keening sound escaping my throat that I barely recognize as my own voice. The heat building between my thighs becomes unbearable, slick pouring from me in quantities that would be humiliating if I retained enough awareness to feel shame. My nipples harden to painful points, aching for contact, for relief that only the alpha hovering above me can provide.

"Please," I hear myself whisper, the word torn from some primal part of me I thought long buried. I don't even know what I'm begging for—cessation or completion, mercy or claiming, or maybe just a brief timeout so I can figure out what the hell is happening to my life.

"Already begging," Neros observes with satisfaction, his tentacles tightening around my thighs, spreading them wider. "See how quickly your true nature emerges when chemicalbarriers fall? This is the real Isla Morgan—not the defiant smuggler, but the omega desperate for claiming."

Through a haze that grows thicker with each passing second, I watch Neros shift forms, his body transforming with fluid grace that speaks of evolutionary perfection and probably a really good personal trainer. His upper body remains humanoid, powerful and imposing, but below the waist, more tentacles emerge, writhing with purpose and biological imperative. Among them, something else appears—his cock sliding from a concealed sheath, bearing no resemblance to human anatomy and frankly looking like something that should come with a warning label.

Impossibly thick, it features textured ridges spiraling along its length, tapering to a flared head that pulses with the same bioluminescent patterns marking his skin. The sight of it sends a shock of primal fear through me, cutting momentarily through the aphrodisiac haze—evolution designed not for pleasure but for conquest, for ensuring breeding success through overwhelming stimulation, for rewiring an omega's very biology to crave what once terrified her.

"No," I whisper, but the drug has transformed my voice, making even this protest sound like invitation, like supplication. "It won't fit. You'll tear me apart." The words come from some last fragment of my rational mind, drowning in a sea of chemical compulsion.

"You will adapt," he states with absolute certainty, positioning himself between my spread thighs like someone who's never encountered a problem he couldn't solve through sheer determination and biological superiority. Additional tentacles wrap around my waist, eliminating any possibility of retreat. "All omegas fight the first claiming. By the third, you'll beg for it before I even enter the chamber. Your body was created for this purpose—to receive, to yield, to nurture my seed until it takes root."

His words should disgust me, but instead they send another wave of slick flooding from my core, my omega biology responding to breeding talk with shameful enthusiasm. My scent glands pulse at my neck, releasing pheromones that signal readiness, surrender, fertility. The aphrodisiac has stripped away every layer of defense, leaving only raw biological imperative with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

I feel the head of his cock press against my entrance, hot and pulsing with alien life. Despite the slick my body produces in humiliating abundance, the size difference seems insurmountable, a physical impossibility that makes me question the universe's sense of humor. I strain against the restraints in one final desperate attempt at escape, at preservation of self.

"Please don't—" The words die in my throat as he thrusts forward in a single powerful movement, burying himself halfway inside me with merciless efficiency.