Page 11 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)

CHAPTER 10

AFTERMATH

The switch from heat to normal happens without warning or ceremony. One moment I'm burning from the inside out, desperate for alpha touch despite myself; the next, I wake to blessed clarity, the hormone fog lifting like a nasty hangover.

And like any hangover, it leaves a mess in its wake.

I take stock of the damage with cold precision, trying to distance myself from what my body has been through—and enjoyed—over the past four days. Bruises dot my hips and thighs in the unmistakable pattern of clawed fingers. My legs ache with a deep soreness that flares into actual pain when I move. Even the silky sheets feel rough against my oversensitive skin.

But the most telling evidence sits at the junction of my neck and shoulder—a claiming bite. Still raw, still healing, but already forming the scar that will mark me as his for the rest of my life. My fingers trace the indentations, each puncture from Kairyx's inhuman teeth a permanent record of the moment biology steamrolled my principles.

Omega. Claimed. His.

I should be planning an escape. Plotting resistance. Doing something, anything to reclaim the identity I built over a decade of careful deception. Instead, I lie still, my body too exhausted for action while my mind cycles through jumbled memories of the past days—pleasure I never wanted to feel, surrender I swore would never happen, need that devoured rational thought with terrifying speed.

"You're awake."

The deep voice startles me. Kairyx stands in the doorway, his massive frame somehow less intimidating after heat than during it. He's fully dressed again, his commander's uniform making him look almost civilized, if you could ignore the obsidian scales visible at his collar and wrists.

I pull the sheet higher, a pointless attempt at modesty after everything he's done to me, everything I've begged him to do. "Barely," I manage, my voice scratchy from days of crying out his name.

He approaches cautiously, as if I might bolt at any moment. Which is ridiculous. Where would I go? How would I escape a mountain fortress accessible only by flight? Still, the care in his movements suggests a consideration I didn't expect.

"The first heat after suppressant use hits especially hard," he says, sitting in a chair near the bed rather than joining me on it. Another unexpected courtesy. "Your body was making up for years of chemical interference."

"Spare me the biology lesson," I croak, pushing myself upright despite my protesting muscles. "I know how it works."

His golden eyes narrow slightly at my tone, but he doesn't scold me. Another surprise. During heat, any hint of defiance met with dominant displays that reduced me to willing submission within minutes. Now, he simply watches me with something like... curiosity?

"You're angry," he observes, as if commenting on the weather.

A laugh escapes me, bitter and sharp. "What gave it away? The fact that you kidnapped me? Forced my heat? Claimed me against my will?"

"You weren't unwilling by the end," he counters, but without the smugness I expected. It's a simple statement of fact, not mockery, which somehow makes it worse. Because he's right, and we both know it.

By the third day, I was arching into his touch without prompting. By the fourth, I was begging for his knot with a desperation that makes me cringe now. My body's betrayal was complete and undeniable, recorded in every mark I now bear.

"Biology isn't consent," I snap, the argument sounding hollow even to me after my enthusiastic participation.

Kairyx tilts his head, studying me with those unnerving golden eyes. "True," he concedes, surprising me again. "But it is reality. Your omega nature is as much a part of you as your mind, Clara. Fighting that connection only extends your adjustment period."

"Is that what this is? An 'adjustment period'? Like I'm settling into a new apartment, not being held captive by a creature who plans to use me as a breeding vessel?"

My words are deliberately cutting, chosen to provoke anger that would justify my hatred. Instead, he sighs—a surprisingly human sound from such an inhuman being.

"Your perspective makes sense, given your limited experience with dragon culture," he says, rising with fluid grace that makes my breath catch despite myself. "But there's more to this claiming than your human resistance stories would have you believe."

Before I can fire back a suitably biting response, he moves to the door. "I'll send Elara with food. You need to recover your strength." He pauses, then adds, "When you feel up to it, I have something to show you."

The door closes softly behind him, leaving me alone with my confusion and the fact that he didn't act at all as I expected. Where was the gloating? The dominant alpha asserting his rights? The smugness I'd prepared to face with stubborn defiance?

Elara arrives shortly with a tray loaded with more food than I could possibly eat—eggs, fruit, bread still warm from the oven, a pot of what smells like genuine coffee rather than the fake substitute most human settlements make do with since the Conquest. The luxury feels jarring, a reminder that dragons hoard quality in all forms, not just gold.

"The Commander suggests a bath afterward," she says, her tone neutral as always. "He thought you might appreciate... privacy... for that."

Another unexpected consideration. I eye her suspiciously, searching for the trap behind this apparent thoughtfulness. "Why is he being... accommodating?"

Elara's expression reveals nothing, but something flickers in her eyes—amusement, perhaps, or pity. "Despite what resistance propaganda claims, claimed omegas aren't prisoners here. You're valuable. Rare. Especially those capable of carrying dragon young."

The reminder chills me. That's what all this is about, ultimately. My fertility. My ability to grow his offspring. The possibility sits heavily in my stomach, souring my appetite despite the tempting aroma of real coffee.

"And if I don't conceive?" I ask, unable to stop myself.

"Then he'll try again during your next heat," she says simply. "The Commander is... patient. Unlike some."

The implication is clear—I could have ended up with someone worse. Much worse. It's small comfort.

The bath helps, at least physically. The hot water soothes aching muscles and washes away the lingering evidence of four days spent satisfying draconic rut. I take my time, scrubbing every inch of skin as if I could somehow erase the memory of his touch along with the physical traces.

Afterward, I find clothes laid out—not the revealing silks I expected, but comfortable garments in fine fabrics. Leggings, a tunic, even practical boots. Clothes for movement, not display. Another contradiction to puzzle over.

When I finally venture from my chambers—and when did I start thinking of them as mine rather than my prison?—I find Kairyx waiting in the corridor, his massive form radiating that unnatural heat that once felt unbearable but now registers as simply part of him.

"You look better," he observes, his gaze noting the color returned to my face after food and rest.

"I look like someone who's been thoroughly claimed for four days straight," I reply bluntly, refusing to soften either truth or language. Let him see I'm not some docile pet, heat-submission notwithstanding.

His lips quirk in what might be amusement. "That too," he acknowledges. "Come. There's something I want you to see."

Curiosity battles with stubborn resistance. The librarian in me—the real me, beneath omega biology and forced submission—craves new information, new understanding, even of my captor. Knowledge is power, after all. The more I know about him and this place, the better my chances of... of what? Escape seems increasingly unlikely. Survival, then. Adaptation. Finding ways to keep my sense of self within captivity.

"Fine," I concede, following him through corridors carved from living stone, their dimensions built for dragons rather than humans. Everything feels too large, too grand, a constant reminder of my relative smallness in this new hierarchy.

We pass other dragons who nod respectfully to Kairyx but regard me with obvious curiosity. I'm a novelty here—a newly claimed omega, bearing their commander's mark. Their attention makes my skin crawl, but I lift my chin, refusing to cower. I may be claimed, but I'm not broken.

The path winds deeper into the mountain, descending to levels I haven't seen before. The air grows warmer, closer, scented with something I can't immediately place—paper? Leather? Old books?

When Kairyx finally stops before a massive wooden door carved with intricate flame patterns, I realize I'm holding my breath with anticipation. He places his palm against the center carving, and warmth radiates outward as some mechanism recognizes his heat signature. The door swings open to reveal...

A library. Not just any library, but one that rivals the most prestigious pre-Conquest collections I've ever seen or read about. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books of all ages, from ancient leather-bound tomes to modern volumes. Reading nooks with comfortable chairs. Tables for research. Ladders to reach the highest shelves.

I step inside, momentarily forgetting everything—captivity, claiming, the uncertainty of my future—in the face of such unexpected magnificence.

"You have... books," I say, the wonder in my voice betraying my professional passion despite my attempts at distance.

"The largest collection of pre-Conquest human literature in the Draconic Imperium," Kairyx confirms, watching my reaction with obvious satisfaction. "We're not the mindless destroyers your resistance stories paint us as, Clara. Some of us value knowledge above all else."

I move deeper into the space, fingers hovering reverently over spines I recognize from my own much smaller collection in Ashton Ridge. Classics. Philosophy. Science. History. Some titles I've only heard whispered about, believed lost during the chaos of the Conquest.

"Why show me this?" I ask, suspicion resurfacing through my book-lover's awe. Is this some elaborate psychological trick? Offering intellectual stimulation to make captivity more bearable?

"Because you're a librarian," he says simply. "And because I need one."

I turn to face him, confusion momentarily overriding wariness. "You need a librarian? You kidnapped and claimed me for my cataloging skills?"

His laugh startles me—deeper than human, but genuine, without the mocking edge I'd expect. "Not primarily, no. But it would be wasteful to ignore your expertise when I have hundreds of volumes needing proper organization and preservation."

This creates a whole new kind of confusion. My body bears the evidence of his possession everywhere—bruises from his powerful hands, small burns where his control slipped during intense moments, and most permanently, the claiming bite at my throat that's healing into a scar that marks me as his. Yet alongside this physical possession, he offers intellectual engagement I've been starved for during years of hiding.

"Why would you care what happens to human books?" I challenge, needing to understand this contradiction between the conqueror I expected and the... whatever he is... standing before me.

"Dragon memory runs long," he replies, moving to a nearby shelf and selecting a volume with surprising care for his clawed hands. "We remember civilizations that rose and fell before humans crawled from caves. We understand the value of preserving knowledge, even—perhaps especially—from conquered peoples."

He offers me the book—a pre-Conquest first edition of a philosophical text I've only seen in cheap reprints. I take it automatically, my fingers caressing the leather binding before I can stop myself.

"I want you to help organize this collection," Kairyx says, watching my involuntary reverence for the object in my hands. "Catalog it properly. Identify preservation needs. Apply your expertise to what might be the last comprehensive collection of human thought left in this territory."

I should refuse on principle. Should maintain the wall between captor and captive, between resistance and submission. But the books call to me—not just their physical presence but what they represent. Connection to a world before dragons. Preservation of human achievement despite conquest. And most temptingly, purpose beyond mere breeding.

"Why would you trust me with this?" I ask, clutching the volume to my chest. "I could damage them. Destroy them."

His intense gaze holds mine steadily. "You won't. You love books too much—I saw it in your face the moment we entered. Besides," he adds matter-of-factly, "where would you go if you tried to run? How far would you get, claimed omega bearing my scent, in a mountain accessible only by flight?"

The truth stings, all the more for its undeniable logic. I am trapped here regardless. The choice isn't between freedom and captivity, but between meaningless captivity and... whatever this is.

"Fine," I say finally, the word coming out more like defeat than agreement. "I'll help with your collection."

When he smiles—not the predatory grin of claiming but something almost genuine—I tell myself my response is merely omega biology reacting to alpha approval. Nothing more. Nothing meaningful.

"Excellent," he says, turning to survey the vast collection. "Where do you suggest we begin?"

I trail my fingers along nearby spines, considering the question with professional detachment I cling to like a lifeline. This, at least, is familiar territory. This, I understand.

"Condition assessment first," I say, slipping into the librarian persona that feels more authentically me than either beta deception or omega submission. "Then basic categorization. After that, a proper cataloging system that works for both human and draconic classification methods."

I'm already mentally designing the system, professional excitement momentarily outweighing personal circumstances. When I glance up, I find Kairyx watching me with unusual intensity.

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, but his expression suggests otherwise. "It's just... refreshing... to see passion for something beyond survival or resistance."

The observation cuts too close to truths I'm not ready to face. I look away, focusing on the books rather than the creature who somehow appreciates them.

"We'll need proper archival materials," I say briskly, redirecting to practicalities. "Acid-free paper, conservation-grade adhesives if any bindings need repair, controlled humidity for the older volumes..."

As I list requirements, I tell myself this is merely survival strategy—compliance buying time until escape becomes possible, intellectual engagement protecting my mind while my body remains captive. But the explanation feels hollow even to me, especially when Kairyx begins questioning me about pre-Conquest literature with genuine curiosity, debating interpretations of texts I'd assumed no Prime would value.

By the time we leave the library hours later, my head spins with contradictions I can't reconcile. The creature who claimed me against my will is the same being who handles ancient books with careful reverence. The conqueror who enforces Prime dominance also preserves human knowledge with dedicated precision. The alpha who reduced me to begging, pleading omega submission also engages my intellect as if my thoughts have value beyond my biological function.

I don't know what to do with these contradictions. Don't know how to hate someone who defies the resistance stories I've built my understanding around. Don't know how to maintain emotional distance when he offers the one thing I've craved most during years of hiding—recognition of my mind alongside my body.

I fall asleep that night surrounded by books he's allowed me to bring to my chambers, the scent of paper and leather comforting me more effectively than any locked door or guard could. My last conscious thought is the most dangerous yet:

What if everything I thought I knew about Primes—about him—is wrong?