Page 16 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)
CHAPTER 15
HEART OF THE DRAGON
Medical facilities have this universal quality—antiseptic, austere, with an atmosphere that stretches minutes into eternities. Even when they're hollowed from mountainsides and staffed by a mixture of humans and scaled beings.
For three days, I occupy a bed that promises comfort but never quite delivers, surrounded by monitors whose rhythmic beeping seems deliberately calibrated to prevent proper rest. Thin tubes extend from my arms, delivering a mixture of minerals and nutrients my human physiology can't produce naturally but that my half-dragon twins apparently require to survive. The contradiction doesn't escape me—my own body inadequate even for nurturing the hybrid offspring growing within. Another shortcoming to add to my collection.
"The supplements are having the desired effect," Dr. Lydia Morales—the iron-haired human physician who apparently oversees this facility—informs me during her morning assessment. "The embryonic development has stabilized. One more day of observation, then you can return to Drake's Peak with an oral supplementation regimen."
She communicates with the brisk proficiency of someone who's witnessed too much to be readily impressed, even by the intervention that rescued my pregnancy. I find myself wondering about her history—how many claimed omegas has she treated, how many hybrid pregnancies has she shepherded to term, how many failures has she documented.
"How frequently does this happen?" I ask, gesturing toward the IV feeding blue-tinted fluid into my veins. "This... incompatibility."
Her professional mask slips slightly, clinical detachment yielding to what might be genuine compassion. "Dragon-human pregnancies present unique challenges. About thirty percent experience some variant of mineral deficiency crisis." She checks my vital signs with methodical efficiency. "You can consider yourself lucky the Commander detected the complication immediately. Most cases aren't identified this quickly."
Lucky. An intriguing characterization of my situation. I'm uncertain whether "lucky" accurately describes being abducted, claimed, and impregnated with hybrid offspring that nearly killed both themselves and me through fundamental biological incompatibility. But I keep these thoughts private. Dr. Morales strikes me as someone who comprehends more than she reveals, and antagonizing the person ensuring my twins' survival seems unwise.
Kairyx arrives moments after her departure, his towering frame making the medical chamber feel suddenly confined despite its spacious dimensions. Throughout these three days, he's maintained an almost constant vigil, departing only when territorial obligations demanded attention. He rests in a specially reinforced chair beside my bed, refuses separation during medical procedures, and observes the staff with a focus that would terrify me if it weren't so evidently protective.
"The doctor says one more day," I tell him as he settles into his now-familiar position, his gaze scanning the monitoring equipment before finding my face. "Then we can return... home."
The word surprises even me. Drake's Peak isn't home. It's imprisonment, gilded and increasingly tolerable, but imprisonment nonetheless. Yet the term emerged naturally, without calculation, revealing fractures in my mental defenses I hadn't recognized.
If Kairyx notices my verbal slip, he doesn't mention it. He simply inclines his head, the obsidian patterns across his shoulders shifting with what I've learned to interpret as relief.
"The mineral supplements will continue indefinitely," he says, reaching to adjust my blanket with unexpected delicacy. "And weekly monitoring at minimum. We cannot risk further complications."
The statement encompasses multiple layers—concern for the twins, certainly, but also for me. This distinction both puzzles and unsettles me. According to resistance narratives I've absorbed for years, Primes care exclusively for breeding potential, not for the vessels carrying their young. Practical interest in successful reproduction, not genuine concern for the omega involved.
But recent events have dismantled those simplistic narratives beyond salvaging. Kairyx's desperate flight through blizzard conditions, his refusal to leave during treatment, the flash of raw fear I glimpsed when healers worked to stabilize the twins—none align with the monster archetype I've clung to for self-preservation.
"Why did you select me?" The question materializes without forethought, born from days of wondering what distinguishes me from previous claimed omegas. "From all possible omegas you could have taken, why me specifically?"
His gaze pierces me with disconcerting intensity, vertical pupils contracting before he responds. "You weren't selected. You were discovered."
"What does that mean?"
"It means there was no deliberate choice process. I found you during routine inspection, recognized your suppressed nature, and claimed you according to Conquest law." His tone remains matter-of-fact, clinical. "Your question suggests a catalog of options from which I purposefully chose you. That's not what happened."
"But you seemed... pleased. When you realized I'd never been with monsters before. Elara mentioned you valued my 'purity'." The word tastes bitter as I speak it, a reminder of how completely that state has been eradicated.
Something flickers across his features—discomfort, perhaps, at having this private preference exposed. "Yes," he acknowledges, the scales along his shoulders darkening fractionally. "Previous attempts at breeding were... unsuccessful."
This admission catches me unprepared. Not the information itself—I understood dragons faced reproductive challenges; it partially explains their obsessive claiming of human omegas—but his willingness to reveal vulnerability.
"How many?" I ask, my tone gentler than intended.
"Seven." The single word carries volumes of disappointment, of failure that evidently weighs on him despite his position and power. "Seven claimed omegas, all previously mated with other Primes. None conceived successfully. Those who did miscarried within weeks."
Understanding crystallizes with uncomfortable clarity. "And you theorized that a human without previous Prime contact might have better chances."
He dips his head slightly, confirming my assessment. "Dragon bloodlines are weakening. Despite our apparent power, our numbers decrease with each generation. Viable offspring have become... rare."
"Is this common knowledge?" I ask, connecting pieces in my mind. "The reproductive difficulties?"
"No." His response comes immediately and firmly. "Such vulnerability would be exploited by rival species. Our public narrative emphasizes strength, dominance, successful adaptation to this world."
The revelation stuns me into momentary silence. Not just the content—though learning the seemingly invincible Primes face existential threats is certainly shocking—but the fact that he's sharing it with me at all. This isn't information a commander shares with a captive. It's vulnerability revealed to... what? An ally? A mate?
"Why are you telling me this?" I finally ask, barely above a whisper.
His gaze meets mine directly, golden eyes reflecting the chamber's subdued lighting. "Because you asked. And because you deserve to understand the context of your situation."
"Most captors don't concern themselves with their prisoners' understanding," I point out, unable to suppress the edge in my voice despite the strange intimacy developing between us.
"Most captives aren't nurturing the continuation of a bloodline," he counters, one hand resting lightly against my barely-rounded abdomen. The gesture feels simultaneously possessive and reverent. "You are not merely prisoner, Clara. You never have been."
"Then what am I?" The question emerges raw, honest, stripped of defensive layers I've maintained since capture.
His answer comes with equal candor. "The future of my line. The vessel of my continuation. And increasingly... something I lack adequate terminology to define."
The admission hangs between us, weightier than any claiming, any physical possession. Acknowledgment that whatever exists between us has evolved beyond simplistic categories of captor and captive, of alpha and omega, of monster and human.
"I don't know how to be that," I confess, surprised by my own honesty. "Any of those things."
"I don't know how to have them," he responds, the vulnerability in his voice more jarring than any display of dominance. "Dragons exist solitary by nature. Territorial. We claim, we breed, we separate. This—" his gesture encompasses the medical chamber, our current situation, perhaps our entire complicated relationship "—this is unexplored territory for my kind as well."
Something fundamental shifts in that moment—not a sudden transformation but quiet recognition of change already underway. For the first time, we communicate not as enemies forced together by biology and Conquest law, but as two beings confronting a shared challenge, navigating uncharted waters with only each other as reference.
When we return to Drake's Peak the following day, the fortress feels simultaneously familiar and strange, as if viewed through altered perception. My quarters remain luxurious, but the nursery preparations now register as more than ownership markers. The guards at my door appear less like jailers and more like sentinels. Even the mountain itself feels different—less prison, more sanctuary.
That night, when Kairyx enters my chambers, the air between us simmers with something electric and unfamiliar. My pulse quickens stupidly when he appears—a thoroughly ridiculous reaction having nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how his golden eyes fix on me as though I'm the only thing worth seeing in this entire fortress of stone and secrets.
For once, my body and mind aren't contradicting each other. They're in perfect, terrifying alignment—I want him. Not from heat. Not from biology. Just because.
"Clara," he says, and heaven help me, the way my name resonates from his throat raises goosebumps across my skin. When did that happen? When did his voice transform from something that sent ice down my spine to something that pools heat low in my belly?
I rise from where I've been pretending to read by the fire, the book forgotten as he approaches with that lethal fluidity that once terrified me but now triggers something entirely different deep inside. His scales capture the firelight, obsidian shimmering with amber highlights that make him appear carved from living flame.
"Your scent..." he draws a deep breath, nostrils flaring, "has changed tonight."
"Changed how?" My voice emerges huskier than intended, betraying anticipation I'd normally conceal.
He answers not with words but action. His palm cups my face with startling delicacy, thumb tracing my lower lip as though I'm something precious rather than possessed. When he lowers his mouth to mine, I don't submit passively as before—I rise to meet him, parting my lips, my tongue darting forward to taste him first.
He freezes momentarily, genuine surprise flickering across his scaled features. Then a growl reverberates through him, something primal and pleased that I feel more than hear. His kiss transforms from expected dominance into something exploratory, almost reverent, as if my active participation has unlocked something new between us.
He tastes of cinnamon and smoke and something metallic that should seem foreign but has become strangely familiar. His tongue moves against mine—hotter than human, slightly textured, creating sensations that send electricity racing down my spine.
My hands, previously trained for passivity, suddenly develop independent will. They reach up to trace the sharp angle of his jawline, fingers mapping the transition from smoother skin to scaled texture. The obsidian plates feel warm and unexpectedly alive beneath my touch, shifting subtly like water disturbed by wind.
"You're beautiful," I whisper against his mouth, the words escaping before my rational mind can censor them. And it's true—when did the alien features I once found horrifying transform into something captivating? The defined cheekbones, the vertical-pupiled eyes, the scales that reflect light in impossible ways—all combine into something magnificent rather than monstrous.
He pulls back just enough to study my face, pupils dilating until gold is nearly consumed by black. "Such words from my fierce little librarian," he murmurs, voice dropped to a register that resonates through my bones. "Who once looked at me with nothing but hatred."
"I still hate you sometimes," I admit, because honesty feels essential here, now, between us. "But I also—" I can't complete the thought, lacking vocabulary for the complicated tangle of emotions he evokes.
"Show me," he challenges, something vulnerable flickering beneath the dominance in his voice. "Show me what exists beyond the hatred."
So I do. My fingers trace the patterns adorning his shoulders, following their whorls downward to where they disappear beneath clothing. I tug at the fabric impatiently, wanting—needing—to see more of him, to explore what I've only experienced through lenses of fear or biological imperative.
His laugh warms me from within as he removes his garments with efficient movements. The sight still steals my breath—the broad expanse of his chest, the scales covering his shoulders and spine while leaving his torso a landscape of defined muscle, the twin ridged lengths already emerging from their sheath between powerful thighs.
"Your turn," he says, clawed hands moving toward my nightgown. "Let me see what's mine."
The possessive words should anger me. Instead, they send fresh heat flooding my core, wetness gathering between my thighs in response having nothing to do with omega biology and everything to do with genuine desire.
He unveils me like something treasured, each revealed inch receiving worshipful attention. His mouth follows his hands, trailing fire along my throat, across my collarbone, between my breasts. When his tongue—hotter than human, slightly rougher—circles one nipple, I arch upward with a gasp entirely unlike my previous reluctant responses.
"Sensitive," he observes, voice rumbling with pleased satisfaction. "Even more so now, with the twins developing inside you. Your body preparing for them."
The reminder of my pregnancy should extinguish the flames building within me. Instead, it somehow intensifies them—the knowledge that he's changed me, marked me, filled me with life that's both his and mine creating a twisted intimacy impossible to deny.
"Does that please you?" he asks, golden eyes tracking my reactions as his mouth continues its devastating journey down my body. "Knowing your breasts will produce nourishment for our offspring? That your body transforms to sustain our bloodline?"
"Yes," I admit, because denial seems pointless when my physical response is so evident. "Heaven help me, but yes."
His pleased rumble vibrates against my skin as he moves lower, massive hands gently parting my thighs. "Let me taste you," he says, not quite question but not quite command. "Let me worship what nurtures my future."
Before I can formulate a coherent response, his mouth is on me—hot tongue exploring folds already embarrassingly slick with desire. The sensation electrifies me, tearing a cry from my throat that echoes off stone walls. This is unprecedented. In all our previous joinings, even during heat, he's never?—
My thoughts scatter as his tongue finds my clit with perfect accuracy, circling the sensitive bundle with deliberate pressure. One clawed finger slides inside me, curved precisely to find the spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"So responsive," he praises between devastating strokes of his tongue. "So perfect. Taking my touch so beautifully." His words affect me more powerfully than they should—each bit of praise sending fresh heat pooling at my core. "The sweetest omega. So wet for my tongue."
A second finger joins the first, stretching me with careful preparation I've never experienced before. His tongue maintains its relentless attention, pushing me higher, closer to an edge I suddenly desperately want to tumble over.
"Please," I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, hips rising to meet his mouth without shame. "Kairyx, please?—"
"Tell me what you need," he commands, lifting his head just enough for me to see his golden eyes, pupils contracted to thin slits with arousal. "Say it, Clara."
"Make me come," I plead, pride abandoned to overwhelming need. "Please, I need?—"
He doesn't make me finish. His mouth returns with renewed purpose, tongue flicking rapidly against my clit while his fingers curl inside me with devastating precision. The orgasm crashes through me without warning, tearing a scream from my throat as pleasure obliterates all coherent thought. Waves of sensation roll through me, each cresting higher than the last until I'm certain I'll shatter from the intensity.
As I lie gasping, attempting to reassemble my scattered mind, he rises above me, his massive form blocking the firelight. His expression shows triumph, yes, but also something softer, almost wondering, as he takes in my flushed skin and dazed eyes.
"Magnificent," he murmurs, one hand brushing sweat-dampened hair from my face. "My fierce, perfect omega. Taking pleasure so beautifully."
The praise sends another aftershock rippling through me. Without conscious decision, I reach for him, hands sliding down his scaled chest to where his dual lengths stand ready. They radiate heat against my touch, the ridged surfaces shifting slightly beneath my exploring fingers in a way that should feel alien but instead sends fresh heat gathering between my thighs.
"Show me," I say, echoing his earlier challenge. "Show me how to please you."
His pupils contract to near-invisible slits, his breathing audibly catching at my unexpected request. For a moment I think he'll refuse—assert dominance, take control as always before. Instead, he guides my hand with his own, demonstrating how to stroke both lengths together, where pressure makes his scales darken with pleasure, how to trace the ridges that will soon drag against my inner walls.
"Your mouth," he finally says, voice strained with evident restraint. "Would you?—"
I don't wait for him to complete the request. Driven by curiosity and newfound boldness, I move down his body until I'm level with his arousal. The dual cocks are intimidating up close—larger than human, ridged along their considerable length, radiating heat I can feel against my face. But his quickened breathing as I lean closer, the barely-restrained tension in his powerful body, gives me a heady sense of control I've never experienced with him before.
The first taste is unfamiliar—not unpleasant, but definitely alien, hotter than human skin with a flavor like smoked cinnamon that tingles across my tongue. I explore experimentally, tracing ridges with light touches, discovering which areas make his scales darken and which draw those rumbling growls from deep in his chest.
"Perfect," he praises as I take one head into my mouth, my hand continuing to stroke the other. "So perfect, Clara. Taking me so beautifully."
His words shouldn't affect me so powerfully, but each bit of praise sends another rush of wetness between my thighs. I work him with growing confidence, discovering how much I can accommodate, what movements make his clawed hands grip the sheets to avoid grabbing me. The power I feel is intoxicating—me, making this apex predator struggle for control.
When he finally pulls me away, his eyes have gone fully draconic, pupils so thin they're barely visible in pools of molten gold. "Enough," he growls, voice hardly recognizable. "Need to be inside you. Need to feel you around me."
He guides me onto my back, positioning himself between my thighs with more care than ever before. The twin heads of his cocks press against my entrance, already slick from both his earlier attention and my growing arousal.
"Tell me if anything hurts," he says, surprising me again with consideration I never expected. "Your body is changing with the pregnancy. I don't want to cause harm."
The concern in his voice unlocks something I've kept tightly guarded. I reach up to touch his face, fingers tracing the sharp angle of his jaw with genuine tenderness. "I trust you," I whisper, the admission shocking us both. "I trust you not to hurt me."
His eyes widen, those three simple words clearly striking deeper than any physical touch. Then he moves forward, claiming me in one powerful thrust that leaves me breathless.
The initial penetration still brings that distinctive stretch bordering on pain—his inhuman anatomy impossible by normal human standards—but now accompanied by pleasure I no longer pretend to resent. My body welcomes him with eager readiness, inner muscles stretching to accommodate his dual lengths as if designed specifically for this purpose.
"Mine," he growls as he fills me completely, the declaration no longer threat but promise, acknowledgment of connection transcending simple possession.
"Yes," I agree, surprising myself with how naturally the admission comes. For tonight at least, in this moment, with his body joined to mine and his essence nurturing the children growing within me, I am undeniably his.
He moves with exquisite precision, each thrust targeting spots inside me that make coherent thought impossible. My legs wrap around his waist, drawing him deeper as my hips rise to meet each powerful drive. My hands explore his body with newfound freedom, discovering how the scales along his spine darken and shift in response to my touch, how certain patterns elicit rumbling purrs of pleasure that vibrate through both our bodies.
"Look at you," he praises, voice roughened with pleasure and something deeper. "Taking both my cocks so perfectly. Such a good girl for your alpha."
His praise affects me more powerfully than it should, each word sending another rush of heat through me, inner muscles clenching around him in response that draws a pleased growl from his chest.
"You tighten so beautifully when I praise you," he observes, adjusting his angle to hit that spot deep inside that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. "Do you enjoy hearing how perfect you are? How beautifully you take me? How no omega before you has ever felt so right around me?"
"Yes," I admit, beyond pretense now. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
The joining isn't gentle—Kairyx remains an alpha dragon, with all the power and dominance that entails—but it's mutual in ways previous couplings never were. When his pace increases, I match it. When his hands guide my hips for deeper penetration, I arch eagerly into the adjustment. When his mouth claims mine again, I return the kiss with equal hunger.
The dual sensations of his twin lengths filling me completely, their ridged surfaces dragging against spots inside that make rational thought impossible, build pressure coiling tight at the base of my spine. Waves of pleasure crash through me, each more intense than the last, until I'm clinging to him not from fear but from desperate need for anchor against the tide threatening to sweep me away.
"Come for me," he commands, voice dropping to that register that bypasses conscious thought and connects directly to something primal within me. "Let me feel you surrender, Clara. Not to me—with me."
The distinction shatters something inside me. My release hits with devastating force, inner muscles rhythmically clenching around his invasive lengths as pleasure obliterates conscious thought. I cry out his name—not his title, not "Commander," but "Kairyx"—the sound torn from somewhere beyond thought or calculation.
When his knots begin to swell, stretching my entrance past comfort into that space where pain and pleasure become indistinguishable, I don't simply endure the lock but actively embrace it. My inner muscles clench deliberately around the swelling bases, milking the response I now seek rather than merely accepting what biology demands.
"Clara," he groans, my name barely recognizable as his control fractures. Small flames escape his mouth with each exhalation, evidence of draconic passion pushed beyond limits.
His release floods me with scorching heat, burning seed filling me in pulsing waves that trigger another unexpected orgasm, this one softer but somehow deeper, radiating outward from my core until even my fingertips tingle with sensation. The satisfaction isn't one-sided as before, but mutual—shared pleasure transcending the biological imperative that first brought us together.
In the aftermath, as we remain joined by biology, his wings partially unfurl to wrap around my smaller form, creating a cocoon of scaled warmth that feels increasingly like belonging. His heartbeat beneath my ear maintains the slightly slower rhythm of draconic physiology, yet has become as familiar to me as my own.
Neither of us speaks. Words seem inadequate to define what's happening between us—what's already happened, what continues to evolve with each passing day. The silence isn't uncomfortable but contemplative, filled with unspoken understanding that transcends language.
My hand rests against my abdomen, sensing changes still invisible to the eye but undeniably present. The twins growing inside me, once the ultimate evidence of captivity, now represent something far more complicated—a bridge between worlds, between species, between the woman I was and the person I'm becoming.
Kairyx's hand covers mine, clawed fingers gentle against my skin. The protective gesture contains possession, yes, but also connection that extends beyond mere ownership. Wordless acknowledgment of shared investment in what began as forced claiming but has transformed into partnership neither of us anticipated.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, as his wings tighten slightly around us both, I find myself surrendering to the warmth, to the protection, to the belonging I've denied myself for so long. Not because biology demands it, not because captivity allows no alternative, but because something deeper, more fundamental, has shifted between us.
The heart of the dragon, it seems, is not so different from my own.