Page 10 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)
CHAPTER 9
HEAT HAZE
Time blurs in heat.
I wake to sunlight streaming through the balcony. Morning, but which one? The first after claiming? The second? My thoughts drift in a fog of hormones and endorphins, unable to grasp anything solid.
Only physical sensations remain clear—the tenderness between my thighs, the lingering fullness from hours of use, dried evidence of multiple claimings on my skin. I should feel disgust. Anger. Something beyond this strange disconnection from reality.
Instead, my rebellious body hums with satisfaction while my mind struggles to piece itself back together.
The space beside me lies empty, though the sheets still radiate Kairyx's unnatural warmth. Small mercies. At least I have moments to gather myself before the next wave hits, before he returns to assert his claim again.
I try to sit up and instantly regret it. Every muscle protests, unaccustomed to the demands of the claiming. My intimate tissues feel both tender and oversensitized, a constant reminder of the impossible anatomy that possessed me. That will possess me again. And again. Until my heat finally burns out.
Water. I need water. My throat feels raw—from screaming? From begging? The memory fades into haze, and I'm not sure I want it to clear.
As if summoned by my thought, Elara appears with a tray—water, broth, and pills I view with suspicion.
"Just supplements," she explains, placing the tray beside me. "Heat depletes your body faster than illness. You need to replenish."
I swallow the pills without argument, then drain the water in desperate gulps. The cool liquid soothes my parched throat like salvation.
"How long?" I ask, my voice a ragged shadow of itself.
"You've been in full heat for nearly twenty-four hours," she answers, her movements revealing nothing of her thoughts about my situation. "The Commander expects it to last another two to three days, given the intensity."
Another two to three days. The thought should terrify me. Instead, my primal omega instincts nearly purr with anticipation while my conscious mind recoils. The contradiction makes my head spin.
"Where is he?" I try to sound neutral, as if asking about the weather rather than my captor.
"Territorial business," Elara says, gathering soiled linens with brisk efficiency. "He'll return when it's finished. In the meantime, you should rest while you can."
Rest. As if sleep could magically restore what I've lost—control, autonomy, the identity I built over a decade of careful deception. All stripped away with my chemical barriers, leaving only the omega nature I've denied for so long.
Elara leaves, and I drift into uneasy sleep, only to jolt awake as another wave of heat crashes through me without warning. It begins as a spark at the base of my spine that quickly blazes into an inferno, devouring rational thought with frightening speed.
My back arches off the bed, seeking contact that isn't there. My empty channel clenches painfully, producing wetness in desperate preparation for a claiming that isn't happening. The need tears through me with sharp claws, shredding coherent thought.
Where is he? The question surfaces in my heat-fogged mind with embarrassing urgency. I need... I need...
As if called by the thought—or more likely, by the concentrated omega pheromones now filling the chamber—the door swings open with sudden force. Kairyx fills the doorway, his massive silhouette framed against the corridor light. His nostrils flare as he breathes deeply, golden eyes instantly narrowing to predatory slits.
"Already desperate for me, little omega?" His voice echoes through the space between us, deeper than usual, roughened by the rut my scent triggers. "And I've only been gone a few hours."
"Go to hell," I manage, though the words lack conviction when I'm writhing on the bed, skin flushed with need I can't hide.
His laugh—dark and knowing—sends an unwelcome shiver along my spine. "After you," he counters, shedding clothing as he approaches with predatory intent.
What follows obliterates all thought. He's on me instantly, flipping me onto my stomach with a growl that reverberates through my bones. His scaled hands grip my hips, lifting me onto my knees as he positions himself behind me.
"Present," he commands, voice barely recognizable through the rut-roughness. "Show me how an omega offers herself to her alpha."
I should refuse. Should fight. Instead, my treacherous body responds immediately—spine arching, hips tilting, thighs spreading in perfect omega presentation. Wetness flows down my inner thighs, my body eagerly preparing for what comes next.
"Look at you," he murmurs, one talon tracing the curve of my spine, raising goosebumps in its wake. "Already so ready for me. So eager."
"I'm not—" I try to deny it, but he chooses that moment to thrust forward, both ridged lengths entering me in one powerful stroke that steals breath and reason alike.
"Not what?" he taunts, his grip tightening as he withdraws almost completely before driving back in with enough force to push me forward. "Not craving my shafts? Not aching to be filled?"
I bite the pillow to smother the moan his words draw from me, but he allows no such escape. One massive hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back as he sets a punishing rhythm that makes coherent thought impossible.
"I want to hear you this time," he growls against my ear, each thrust deliberate and devastating. "No silent submission. Let me hear what I do to you."
And heaven help me, I do. Sounds I've never made before—desperate, needy, pleading—escape my throat as he works my body with merciless precision.
"That's it," he praises, shifting slightly to hit a spot inside me that sends lightning racing along my spine. "Good girl. Taking me so perfectly."
My inner muscles clench around his dual lengths in response, drawing a pleased rumble from his chest. "You tighten when I praise you," he observes, the realization sending heat rushing to my face. "You enjoy that, don't you? Being my good little omega."
I want to deny it, but another powerful thrust destroys any hope of coherent response. He's learning my body with terrifying efficiency, noting each gasp, each shudder, each involuntary tightening when he strikes exactly the right spot.
"Here?" he asks, deliberately grinding against a particularly sensitive place inside me. When I cry out, unable to stop myself, his laugh vibrates through both our bodies. "I thought so."
He lifts me then, still impaled on his twin shafts, carrying me to the nearest wall with insulting ease. The stone feels cold against my heated skin, a shocking contrast to the burning heat of his scaled body pressed against mine. The new position allows him even deeper access, each thrust now reaching places inside me I didn't know existed.
"Look at me," he demands, one hand gripping my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. His eyes glow with inhuman intensity, pupils nearly invisible as rut consumes him. "Watch what I do to you."
I couldn't look away if I tried. His expression captivates me—primal hunger mixed with focused determination as he works my body with increasing intensity. The sounds of our joining fill the chamber, undeniable evidence of how eagerly my body accepts his invasion.
"You're close," he states with absolute certainty. His talon finds my sensitive bud with unerring accuracy, circling in time with his thrusts. "Come for me. Now."
My body obeys before my mind can resist, the orgasm crashing through me with enough force to tear a scream from my throat. My inner walls pulse around his dual lengths rhythmically, drawing his release even as aftershocks continue to shake my frame.
"So perfect," he growls, his pace becoming erratic as his own release approaches. "Gripping my shafts just right. Made for this. Made for me."
When he comes, it's with a roar that shakes dust from the ceiling, his dual knots swelling simultaneously to lock us together as his burning seed floods my womb in seemingly endless pulses. The sensation triggers another unexpected climax that tears through me with overwhelming intensity, pleasure whiting out conscious thought.
Afterward, he carries me to the bathing chamber, still joined by his knots, and sinks into the massive tub with me cradled against his chest. The warm water soothes aching muscles, while his hands move over my skin with surprising gentleness, washing away the evidence of our joining.
It's this tenderness that confuses me most—the contradiction between brutal domination and careful attention afterward. As if I'm precious to him, something to be cherished rather than merely possessed.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, voice small in the steamy silence.
His chest vibrates against my back, not quite a laugh. "Cleaning you? It's practical. We'll be at this for days, and?—"
"No," I interrupt, surprising myself with the boldness. "Not the bathing. The..." I struggle to find words that don't make me sound pathetic. "The gentleness. After."
His hands pause in their ministrations, one resting over my abdomen where his seed remains sealed inside me by his knots. "Claiming doesn't have to be punishment," he says finally. "Even when it begins as capture."
The words make no sense to me, contradicting everything I've learned about Prime alphas over the past decade. Before I can question further, another wave of heat surges through me, and coherent conversation becomes impossible.
The pattern repeats throughout the day—claiming followed by brief periods of clarity that grow increasingly shorter as my heat intensifies. He takes me everywhere—on the floor beside the fireplace, bent over the back of a chair, on the balcony where any passing dragon might witness my submission. His stamina proves inhuman, his rut matching my heat with endless capacity for breeding.
Between joinings, I drift through fevered dreams where past and present blend into disorienting fragments. Memories surface unbidden—my family before the Conquest, laughing together over dinner in our small suburban home. The terror of the first dragon sighting on television, massive wings blotting out the sun over what used to be Washington D.C. The years spent constructing the beta librarian identity that would keep me safe, memorizing details of a life I'd never lived before the Prime invasion.
These fragments of my previous existence make my current captivity all the more jarring. The contrast between who I was and what I've become—claimed omega, breeding vessel, my body accepting its biological destiny with embarrassing enthusiasm.
By the third day, physical transformation is complete. My body has adapted to Kairyx's impossible anatomy, the initial pain giving way entirely to pleasure I can no longer pretend to reject. His twin shafts slide into me with practiced ease now, my inner walls yielding eagerly to accommodate the ridged lengths that seemed impossible just days ago. My omega biology responds to his alpha presence with automatic precision—pupils dilating, skin flushing, wetness gathering between my thighs whenever he enters the room.
"Look how ready you get just from my scent," he observes during one claiming, fingers sliding through the abundant wetness between my thighs. "Your body craves me even before I touch you."
It's true, and we both know it. He's mapped every inch of my body with merciless precision, discovering sensitive spots I didn't know existed—the place just behind my ear that makes me shiver when he growls against it, the exact pressure needed on my nipples to make my back arch involuntarily, the perfect angle to hit the spot deep inside that makes me cry out his name despite my best efforts not to.
Most disturbing is my growing addiction to his praise—the rumbled "good girl" when I take both his lengths without resistance, the possessive growl of "mine" that somehow comforts rather than repels. My omega instincts preen under his approval, seeking it with increasing desperation as heat erodes higher thinking.
"That's it," he'll murmur as I climax around him. "Squeeze me just like that. Perfect omega. So good for me."
And heaven help me, I respond—inner walls tightening around his invasion, drawing his release with biological efficiency that brings a rumble of approval from his chest. The positive reinforcement creates a cycle I can't seem to break—pleasure, praise, more pleasure, more surrender.
"You're perfect like this," he murmurs during one of the brief respites, his talons tracing patterns across my sweat-slicked skin. "Accepting what you are instead of fighting it."
"I'm not accepting anything," I protest weakly, but the words ring hollow even to my own ears. My body has made its choice, whatever my mind might claim.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest where my head rests. "Tell yourself whatever you need to, little omega. Your body knows the truth." His hand slides between my thighs, finding me already wet and ready despite multiple claimings. "See? Already eager for more."
Before I can argue further, heat surges again, washing away resistance in a tide of biological imperative. He flips me over, positioning me on hands and knees with practiced efficiency.
"I want to try something," he says, voice rough with rut. "A new angle. I think you'll enjoy this."
He adjusts my position slightly, tilting my hips at a precise angle before driving forward with a single powerful thrust that hits something deep inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"There it is," he growls, satisfaction evident in his voice as I cry out. "I knew your body was hiding more secrets from me."
The claiming is rougher than before, his control slipping as his own rut intensifies in response to my escalating need. His talons grip my hips hard enough to leave marks, his pace relentless as he drives into me with single-minded determination.
Scales spread further across his skin, darkening from obsidian to something deeper that absorbs light. His eyes glow brighter, pupils narrowed to thin lines as his more human features recede beneath draconic nature. Small flames escape his mouth with each breath, scenting the air between us with burning cinnamon.
The display of barely controlled power should terrify me. Instead, it triggers another rush of wetness, my omega biology responding to the evidence of alpha strength with hardwired submission.
"Mine," he growls, the word barely recognizable as language, more primal claim than communication. His pace increases to something just short of violent, the power of his thrusts moving me forward with each drive of his hips.
Pleasure builds with ruthless efficiency, coiling tight at the base of my spine before exploding outward in waves that leave me sobbing with intensity. He follows moments later, dual knots swelling to lock us together as another flood of burning seed fills my womb.
The day progresses in a blur of increasingly intense claimings. He takes me bent over his desk, the polished stone cool against my heated skin as he pounds into me from behind, one hand tangled in my hair to arch my back at precisely the angle he's discovered drives me wild. Later, against the balcony railing, the mountain air kissing my feverish skin as he claims me where any passing dragon might witness my submission.
"You take my knots so beautifully now," he praises, watching my body stretch around the swelling bases of his shafts during one particularly intense joining. "Look how eager you've become."
He makes me watch sometimes, positioned before a mirror as he takes me from behind, forcing me to witness my own surrender—flushed skin, unfocused eyes, lips parted in pleasure I can no longer pretend to reject. The visual evidence of my transformation should horrify me; instead, it sends another rush of wetness coating his already buried lengths.
"See how perfectly we fit together?" he'll growl, grinding his hips against mine to emphasize our joined state. "Watch yourself take what you were made for."
When he knots me for what feels like the hundredth time in three days, his seed filling me to the point of visible swelling in my abdomen, I realize with horror that I've stopped fighting entirely. My hands clutch at him now, nails digging into scaled shoulders as I urge him deeper. My hips rise to meet each thrust, seeking rather than avoiding the invasion. My voice—traitor that it is—begs for his knot, for his release, for the claiming my body craves with increasing desperation.
"Please," I hear myself whimpering as he teases me with shallow thrusts, deliberately withholding the depth I've come to need. "Please, deeper."
His smile is predatory, triumphant. "Say it properly. Tell me what you need."
I should refuse. Should reclaim some shred of dignity. Instead, heat overrides pride with brutal efficiency.
"Your knot," I gasp, shame burning through me even as the words tumble out. "I need your knot. Need you to fill me. Please."
His reward is immediate and devastating—a brutal thrust that seats him fully inside me, both shafts driving to depths that make coherent thought impossible. His pace turns punishing, each drive of his hips jolting my entire body with its force.
"Good girl," he praises, voice rough with rut. "Perfect little omega, begging so sweetly for alpha shafts."
When his knots finally swell, locking us together, the physical evidence of my surrender is unmistakable—my body arching into his touch without conscious permission, accepting his claim with the omega submission I've spent a decade denying existed within me.
"Beautiful," Kairyx murmurs, one hand splayed possessively over my slightly rounded belly where his seed remains trapped inside me. "You were made for this. Made to be claimed. Made to be bred."
The words should trigger revulsion, resistance, rage at being reduced to biological function. Instead, my inner walls clench around his knots in response, milking the last pulses of his release as pleasure ripples through me in gentler waves. My body responds to his praise with another small, rippling climax that draws a pleased rumble from his chest.
"That's it," he encourages, grinding against me to intensify the sensation. "Take every drop."
This is what terrifies me most—not the claiming itself, not even the physical adaptation to his inhuman anatomy, but my growing responsiveness to both his touch and his possessive words. The way my body has learned to crave not just the physical relief of claiming, but his specific brand of dominance—the commanding growl, the possessive grip, the praise when I surrender completely. As if some part of me is awakening to possibilities I never allowed myself to consider.
"This isn't me," I whisper, more to myself than to him. "This is just biology. Chemicals. It isn't real."
His scaled hand tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his golden gaze. "Everything about this is real, Clara," he says, voice gentler than I've heard it before. "Including your response to me. Especially that."
I turn my face away, unable to bear the certainty in his eyes. He allows it, settling us more comfortably against the pillows as we wait for his knots to subside enough for separation. His wings partially unfurl to wrap around us both, creating a cocoon of scaled warmth that shouldn't feel as safe as it does.
In these quiet moments between heat waves, confusion reigns. My body hums with satisfaction while my mind struggles to maintain boundaries that matter less with each claiming. The woman I was—independent, defiant, master of her own fate—seems increasingly distant, a fading memory replaced by this new reality of biological surrender.
Is this how it happens? How resistance crumbles, how captivity becomes choice? Not in one dramatic moment but in gradual erosion, biology overriding principle until submission feels like destiny rather than defeat?
The thought terrifies me more than anything Kairyx could do to my body. Because if I lose myself in this—in him—what remains of Clara Winters at all?
Sleep claims me before I can follow this dangerous line of thinking further, my exhausted body surrendering to unconsciousness with the same eagerness it surrenders to everything else now. The last sensation I register is Kairyx's heartbeat against my back, steady and strong, his wings creating a fortress of scaled protection around my smaller form.
And in sleep, I dream not of escape, not of resistance, but of belonging—a treacherous whisper from my omega hindbrain that I'll have to face when I wake.
If anything of my original self remains by then.