Page 14 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)

CHAPTER 13

GROWING BONDS

Pregnancy changes everything—including dragons, apparently.

Kairyx's transformation happens overnight, a shift so dramatic it gives me emotional whiplash. The alpha who claimed me through force suddenly morphs into something far more complicated, something I don't have the right words to describe.

The first sign comes at breakfast the morning after learning I'm pregnant. I'm picking at bland toast—the only food that doesn't make me instantly queasy—when the doors to my chambers fly open with enough force to rattle my teacup.

Kairyx marches in, followed by a parade of servants carrying all sorts of items. Before I can even ask what's happening, my rooms become the center of a transformation as unstoppable as the dragon himself.

"These rooms won't do," he announces without so much as a good morning, his golden eyes scanning everything with laser focus. "The adjoining chamber will become a nursery. The balcony needs safety modifications. The bed—" his gaze lands on where I sit, still speechless "—is big enough but needs extra support for later."

"What are you doing?" I finally manage, watching servants rearrange furniture like they're playing some high-stakes game of musical chairs.

His expression says my question is ridiculous. "Preparing proper space for my offspring."

"I'm barely pregnant," I protest. "The babies won't need a nursery for months."

"Dragon-hybrid babies develop faster," he reminds me, as if I could forget such a disturbing fact. "Seven months, not nine. And everything should be ready well before they arrive."

I want to argue—to claim some control over my living space if nothing else—but another wave of nausea cuts me off. My hand flies to my mouth, and before I can move, a basin appears in front of me, held by Kairyx's clawed hands.

The embarrassment of throwing up in front of him burns almost as much as the acid in my throat. When I finish, he offers a cloth to wipe my mouth, his expression surprisingly gentle.

"The morning sickness will pass soon," he says with complete certainty. "The healers are making supplements to help until then."

This unexpected concern throws me more than his commanding presence ever did. I've built mental walls against his dominance, his authority, his physical power. I have no defenses against this strange new gentleness.

"I don't understand you," I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

His scales ripple slightly—a reaction I've learned means he's thinking. "Understanding isn't needed right now," he finally says. "Acceptance is enough."

But acceptance of what, exactly? Of pregnancy? Of captivity? Of this weird new dynamic growing between us?

I don't get to ask. He's already turning away, barking orders about nursery arrangements, security upgrades, and dietary requirements. My life, my space, my body—all changing without my input, yet again.

By evening, two guards stand permanently outside my door—not to keep me in, Kairyx explains with annoying patience, but to keep threats out. My meals arrive with strict nutrition guidelines and anti-nausea herbs. The adjoining room that once stored extra furniture now stands empty, waiting to become a nursery.

Most unsettling of all, Kairyx himself becomes a constant presence. Not just physically—though he pops up throughout the day to check on me—but in how completely his awareness of my condition affects every interaction.

"The library is too cold for proper baby development," he declares three days later, interrupting my cataloging work. Before I can object, he's adjusting the heating system, raising the temperature to something that makes me slightly drowsy but apparently benefits the half-dragon twins growing inside me.

"You should sit while reading for long periods," he says another afternoon, appearing beside my standing desk with a specially designed chair that fits my current size while supporting "the developing pelvic adaptations" I'll supposedly need.

It would be easier if this attention came only as alpha commands—orders I could resent cleanly, without complications. Instead, it's tangled with something much more dangerous: intellectual engagement.

"I'd like your opinion on this territory proposal," he says one evening, showing me a scroll with policy changes for human settlements in the western part of his domain. "The farming adjustments seem logical, but I'm concerned about the timeline."

The document is thoughtful, complex, and nothing like the harsh rules I expected from dragon leadership. It outlines sustainable resource management that actually improves conditions for human settlements while maintaining dragon authority. Despite my determination to stay emotionally distant from all aspects of my captivity, I find myself drawn in.

"The timeline is too aggressive," I finally say, pointing to specific sections. "Human farming systems need more transition time between growing seasons. If you push too quickly, you'll create food shortages that will undermine the whole program."

Instead of dismissing my concerns or getting offended at my criticism, Kairyx listens with complete attention. His massive form stays perfectly still as I explain the practical realities of human farming—knowledge I gained through years of resistance work, though I carefully present it as common human understanding.

"How would you adjust the implementation?" he asks, his tone genuine rather than condescending.

The question catches me off-guard. No Prime has ever asked for my input on governance matters. The idea that this territorial commander—this apex predator—would consider human perspective valuable enough to ask for contradicts everything I thought I knew about the new world order.

Even more unsettling is how thoroughly I find myself engaged in the discussion. For hours, we debate points of resource allocation, farming techniques, and settlement management. The conversation flows with an ease that would be exciting under different circumstances—if we were colleagues rather than captor and captive, if my contributions weren't shadowed by the claiming bite on my neck and the hybrid offspring in my womb.

This strange partnership—intellectual engagement alongside physical possession—creates a mental split I struggle to make sense of. How can I maintain proper hatred for my captor while simultaneously connecting with his mind in ways that feel almost like respect?

Even more confusing is how our physical relationship shifts after the pregnancy confirmation.

I expected him to lose interest in claiming me once his seed had taken root. Instead, he continues to visit my bed nightly, though his approach changes in subtle but important ways.

The seventh night after learning of my pregnancy, I'm arranging newly acquired manuscripts when his scent reaches me before he does—smoke and cinnamon with an undercurrent of something metallic. My body responds instantly, warmth flooding my core, nipples tightening beneath my thin nightgown. Without heat to blame, this reaction feels like betrayal of a different sort.

When the door opens, Kairyx fills the frame with his massive presence. He's shed the formal clothes of territorial commander, wearing only loose pants that don't hide the evidence of his arousal. Scales ripple across his chest and shoulders, catching the firelight with hypnotic patterns.

"Clara," he says, my name a rumbling caress that sends involuntary shivers down my spine.

I should resist. Should turn away. Should at least pretend reluctance. Instead, I find myself setting aside the manuscripts with careful precision, my heart already speeding up in anticipation.

"The twins need rest," he continues, approaching with that predatory grace that somehow seems more controlled now, more deliberate. "But your body still needs claiming. The hormone balance benefits baby development."

Of course he'd frame it that way—as necessity rather than desire, as physical requirement rather than hunger. It gives us both the fiction that this is still about biology rather than something far more complicated.

"Tell me if anything hurts," he instructs as he reaches the bedside, his massive body hovering over mine with unusual restraint. "Your body needs different care now."

His clawed hand cups my cheek with surprising gentleness, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a gesture that feels more intimate than it should. When his mouth covers mine, the kiss isn't the dominating claiming of before but something heated and careful, his tongue seeking rather than demanding entrance.

I part my lips, accepting him with an eagerness that would horrify my former self. His taste—smoky cinnamon with that alien undertone unique to dragons—floods my senses, familiar now where once it felt terrifying.

His hands move to my nightgown, claws carefully catching the delicate fabric to lift it over my head. The cool air raises goosebumps on my exposed skin, heightening sensitivity already amplified by pregnancy hormones. When his palms cover my breasts, I gasp at the contact, the heat of his scales creating exquisite friction against my nipples.

"More sensitive now," he observes, golden eyes tracking my reaction as his thumbs circle the hardened peaks with deliberate pressure. "Your body prepares for nursing."

The reminder of my condition should dampen arousal. Instead, it triggers another rush of wetness between my thighs, my omega biology responding to his recognition of fertility with automatic enthusiasm.

"You don't need to narrate the process," I manage, my attempt at sharpness undermined by my breathless voice.

His rumbling laugh vibrates through his chest and into mine where our bodies press together. "Maybe I enjoy your body's honesty, little librarian. Even when your words resist, your scent tells me everything."

To prove his point, he slides one hand between my thighs, finding me embarrassingly wet, ready for him without any real preparation. His rumble of approval sends another wave of heat through me as two clawed fingers slip inside with careful precision.

"Already so wet for me," he murmurs against my throat, teeth grazing the claiming mark at the junction of my neck and shoulder. The contact sends electricity racing through my nerves, making me arch against him with a sound I can't suppress. "So responsive without heat driving you."

"It's just—biology," I insist, the words breaking as his fingers curl to find that spot inside me that makes coherent thought impossible. "Pregnancy hormones."

"Is it?" he challenges, adding a third finger, stretching me with deliberate care that feels more overwhelming than his previous claiming intensity ever was. "Then why does your pulse quicken when I enter your chambers? Why do your pupils widen when I remove my clothing? Why—" his thumb circles my sensitive bud with maddening precision "—do you get wetter when I praise you?"

As if to demonstrate, he continues, "Such a perfect omega, taking my fingers so beautifully. Imagine how stunning you'll look soon, rounded with my young, claimed and marked as mine."

My inner walls clench around his fingers in unmistakable response, drawing another pleased rumble from his chest. The reaction embarrasses and excites me equally—proof that some part of me responds to this possession, this claiming, in ways my conscious mind refuses to acknowledge.

"I need—" I start, unable to finish the admission.

"Tell me," he encourages, voice gentle but insistent. "Say what you need, Clara."

"You," I finally whisper, the confession torn from somewhere beyond pride or pretense. "I need you inside me."

His eyes flash at my words, pupils contracting to thin vertical slits before expanding again—the dragon equivalent of arousal. With careful movements that hide his obvious hunger, he positions himself above me, the twin heads of his shafts pressing against my entrance with unmistakable intent.

"Like this?" he asks, surprising me with the question. "Or would another position be more comfortable for you now?"

The consideration—so different from our initial claiming—momentarily steals my voice. I nod, unable to form words around the conflicting emotions his care triggers.

The first breach is always intense—the impossible stretch as his dual lengths begin to enter me, the burning fullness that borders between pleasure and pain. But unlike our previous claimings, he goes slowly now, each inch a careful advance, giving my body time to adjust and accommodate.

"So tight," he groans, the words strained with evident restraint. "Even after all this time, you still grip me like the first claiming."

A soft sound escapes me as he seats himself fully, both ridged lengths filling me so completely I can barely breathe around the sensation. He remains still, allowing my body to adjust, his massive frame trembling slightly with the effort of holding back.

"Move," I finally gasp, hands clutching at his scaled shoulders for support. "Please."

He does, establishing a rhythm that shows this new approach with undeniable clarity. Where once he took me with alpha dominance—all powerful thrusts and demanding possession—now his movements show calculated gentleness. His dual lengths slide within me with deliberate precision, the ridged surfaces that once stretched me to burning now creating exquisite friction against sensitive inner walls.

"Like this?" he asks, adjusting the angle slightly to hit the spot inside that makes my vision blur. "Does this please you?"

The question feels almost more intimate than the act itself—the acknowledgment that my pleasure matters, that this isn't merely about his satisfaction or biological imperative.

"Yes," I admit, beyond pretense now, beyond the fiction that I merely endure his attentions. "There. Just like that."

His pace increases gradually, each thrust still measured but deeper now, more purposeful. His hands cradle my hips, supporting my weight as he lifts me slightly to change the angle. The new position sends his shafts dragging against my front wall with each withdrawal, building pressure that coils tight at the base of my spine.

"You're close," he observes, his voice roughened with his own approaching release. "I can feel you tightening around me. Come for me, Clara. Let me feel you surrender."

The word should trigger resistance—surrender is what I've fought against since capture. Instead, it pushes me over the edge, pleasure crashing through me in waves that tear a cry from my throat. My inner walls contract around his invasive lengths, clenching and releasing in rhythmic pulses that have nothing to do with heat and everything to do with genuine response to his touch.

"Perfect," he groans, pace becoming uneven as my climax triggers his own. "Taking me so beautifully, so completely."

I feel it then—the familiar swelling at the base of both his shafts as his knots begin to form, stretching my entrance past pleasure into sweet burning fullness that borders on too much. The pressure against that spot inside intensifies as the knots lock into place, triggering aftershocks that leave me gasping, clinging to him as if he's the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with sensation.

When his release comes, it floods me with scorching heat—his burning seed filling my already pregnant womb in pulsing waves I can actually feel inside. The sensation triggers another unexpected orgasm that tears through me with devastating intensity, inner walls milking his knots with biological efficiency that has nothing to do with fertility now and everything to do with pleasure.

The physical joining—his knots locked firmly inside me, his seed warming me from within—extends beyond the purely physical into something I lack words to describe. As we lie connected in the aftermath, both breathing hard, something shifts between us.

My hand moves without conscious thought, reaching up to touch his face. My fingers trace the sharp angle of his jaw, the smooth texture of his scaled cheek. The gesture feels intimate in ways that penetration somehow doesn't—a voluntary connection rather than biological inevitability.

The shock of it freezes us both. My hand hovers, suddenly uncertain, but before I can pull back, Kairyx captures it in his much larger one. His golden eyes lock with mine, pupils widening from draconic slits to something almost human in their appearance. With deliberate movement, he presses my palm more firmly against his cheek, turning slightly to nuzzle against my touch.

The moment stretches between us, heavier than words, acknowledging something neither of us is ready to name. Something that threatens my carefully maintained emotional distance, my identity as unwilling captive, my commitment to seeing him only as monster rather than mate.

"Clara," he says, my name barely more than a rumble in his chest.

"Don't," I whisper, suddenly afraid of whatever might follow—afraid not of his words but of how badly I want to hear them. "Please don't say anything."

He studies me for a long moment, scales shifting with colors too subtle for human eyes to properly see. Then he nods once, accepting my request for the silence that protects us both from facing the impossible complexities forming between us.

But he doesn't let go of my hand against his face, and I don't try to pull away. We remain connected—physically, emotionally—until his knots finally recede enough for separation. Even then, when he gathers me against his chest in what has become our after-claiming ritual, something has undeniably changed.

My fingers trace idle patterns against his scales, following the obsidian whorls that darken and lighten with his moods. His wings partially extend around us, creating a private cocoon of warmth and protection that feels disturbingly like sanctuary. His heartbeat beneath my ear maintains the slightly slower rhythm of dragon physiology, yet has become as familiar to me as my own.

This is the most dangerous development of all—finding comfort in the arms of my captor, pleasure in his body, engagement with his mind. The lines between resistance and acceptance blur with each passing day, with each surprising kindness, with each moment of connection that has nothing to do with force and everything to do with growing recognition of each other as beings rather than symbols.

I place my hand protectively over my still-flat abdomen, feeling for changes not yet visible but undeniably present. The twins growing inside me represent the ultimate evidence of captivity, yet increasingly feel like something more complicated—a bridge between worlds, between species, between the woman I was and the person I'm becoming.

What terrifies me most isn't Kairyx's possessiveness or even carrying half-dragon offspring. It's the growing suspicion that what began as forced claiming might be evolving into something far more dangerous:

A bond I might actually choose, if choice were truly mine to make.