Page 19 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)

CHAPTER 18

STRATEGIC SUBMISSION

Choices aren't choices when all the options suck.

For a week, I've paced the confines of Drake's Peak like the captive I technically still am, turning the so-called "choice" over in my mind until the edges wear smooth from handling. Publicly declare willing acceptance of Kairyx's claim or risk transfer to Vorthrax, whose reputation makes my current captor look like a paragon of dragon gentility.

Some fucking choice.

The twins flutter beneath my heart, movements growing stronger each day. No longer theoretical beings but actual lives I can feel shifting and stretching within me. My hands trace the curve of my abdomen absently as I stand before the massive window overlooking the snow-covered Appalachian range. Eighteen weeks now, and showing prominently due to the accelerated dragon-hybrid gestation.

"Have you decided?" Kairyx's voice comes from behind me, the familiar smoky-cinnamon scent of him reaching me before his words do.

I don't turn. "You know I have. We leave for the Neutral Zone tomorrow."

His reflection appears in the glass beside mine—massive scaled form dwarfing my human silhouette, golden eyes luminous even in the window's poor mirror. "And your decision?"

"The only one I can make." I finally face him, meeting that predatory gaze directly. "I'll declare acceptance of your claim. Strategic submission to prevent a worse fate."

Something flickers across his draconic features—disappointment? Relief? I can't decipher the complex emotions rippling through his scales.

"Is that all it is?" he asks, voice pitched lower than usual. "Strategy?"

The question lands like a blow to my solar plexus, knocking honesty from me before I can armor myself against it. "I don't know anymore," I admit. "What this is. What we are. Where captivity ends and... something else begins."

His clawed hand reaches for me with surprising hesitancy, as if I might shatter at his touch. When I don't pull away, he cups my face, the heat of his scales burning against my skin in a way that's become oddly comforting.

"I recognized you," he says, the words carrying weight beyond their simplicity. "That day in the library. Not just as omega, but as something... exceptional. It wasn't merely biological imperative that drove me to claim you, Clara. Even then, there was more."

"Don't." I close my eyes, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. "Don't rewrite history to make this easier. You took me because I was unclaimed omega in your territory. You claimed me because biology demanded it. Whatever exists now... it came after. It doesn't change how this began."

"No," he agrees, surprising me. "It doesn't change the beginning. But perhaps it changes what we become."

The moment stretches between us, weighted with everything neither of us fully knows how to express—the complications of a relationship forged in capture but tempered by something else, something that resists simple categorization.

"Tomorrow," I finally say, stepping back from his touch, needing space to think clearly. "I'll say what needs saying. Do what needs doing. For the twins. For survival."

Not for us. I don't say it aloud, but the omission hangs in the air nonetheless.

His wings flex slightly, the draconic equivalent of a nod. "We depart at dawn."

That night, for the first time since my capture, he doesn't come to my bed. The gesture speaks volumes—no claiming on the eve of my declaration, no reminder of physical possession when I must testify to willing acceptance. Space to make my choice, even this late in our complicated game.

Sleep eludes me. I lie awake, staring at the carved ceiling, mapping the familiar patterns of stone and shadow. My body, traitor that it is, feels the absence of Kairyx's burning heat, the emptiness where his massive form should lie. When I finally drift into fitful slumber, my dreams tangle with memories—the library in Ashton Ridge, the desperate flight, the heat-claiming, the pregnancy revelation, the tenderness that emerged so unexpectedly from our violent beginning.

Dawn arrives too soon, painting the mountain peaks with brutal gold that offers no mercy, no reprieve from what must come.

The journey to the Neutral Zone passes in tense silence. Kairyx carries me as he did that first day, but now my body fits against his with practiced ease, my arms secure around his neck, my face tucked against his scales to shield from wind and cold. His wings cut through mountain air with powerful strokes, each beat carrying us closer to the destiny neither of us would have chosen but both must now embrace.

The Neutral Zone materializes on the horizon with unexpected grandeur—a vast plateau carved from living stone, intricate buildings gleaming with unnatural luminescence even in daylight. As we descend, details emerge: massive structures designed for beings of draconic proportion, elaborate carvings that tell histories predating human civilization, central plazas large enough to accommodate dozens of full-sized dragons.

"The Hall of Nine," Kairyx explains as we land, his voice pitched for my ears alone. "Where the Council convenes for matters affecting all territories."

Guards approach—not just dragons but representatives of each Prime species, their diverse forms reminding me sharply of how completely the world has changed since the rifts opened. They bow to Kairyx with the deference his rank demands, but their curious gazes linger on me, on the visible evidence of my pregnancy, on the claimed omega carried so carefully in draconic arms.

We're escorted through corridors that would inspire awe under different circumstances—vaulted ceilings adorned with crystalline formations that emit soft, pulsing light; floors inlaid with precious metals in patterns that shift subtly as we pass; air that carries the mingled scents of multiple Prime species, a biological marker of their cooperative governance.

"Vorthrax has already arrived," a bronze-scaled aide informs Kairyx, disapproval evident in his tone despite the neutrality of his words. "The Council awaits."

Kairyx sets me gently on my feet, one clawed hand remaining at the small of my back—not restraining but supporting. "Remember," he murmurs, "your words carry weight here. Speak with conviction."

As if I need reminding that my entire future hangs on my performance. As if I haven't spent a week rehearsing the necessary lies—or truths—I must speak to secure our safety.

The chamber doors swing open, revealing a space so vast it momentarily steals my breath. Circular in design, with tiered seating rising along the perimeter like an ancient amphitheater, the Council chamber centers around a raised dais surrounded by nine massive thrones. Each throne, I realize with dawning comprehension, represents one of the Prime species that emerged through the rifts—dragon, naga, shadow demon, oni, plant creature, kraken, feline, fire elemental, and gargoyle.

And each throne is occupied.

The Council of Nine. The ruling body of the new world order. The ultimate authority in this post-Conquest reality.

Representatives from all major dragon bloodlines fill the observer seats, their scaled forms creating a tapestry of color and texture—obsidian, bronze, emerald, sapphire, ruby, amber. Their collective attention feels like physical pressure against my skin, predatory focus from dozens of inhuman gazes.

"Commander Kairyx Emberscale," a voice announces, reverberating through the chamber with unnatural resonance. "And claimed omega Clara Dawson."

We advance to the center of the chamber, where Vorthrax already stands, his bronze scales gleaming under the crystalline lights. His red-gold eyes fix on me with cruel assessment, lingering on my pregnant belly with possessive hunger that makes me instinctively step closer to Kairyx.

"The Council recognizes this proceeding," the dragon occupying the central throne declares, his scales a burnished gold that nearly blinds when it catches the light. High Emperor Tyverian the Gold-Scale, I realize with a jolt of recognition. Ruler of the Draconic Imperium, the most powerful Prime to emerge from the rifts.

"Commander Vorthrax has issued formal challenge regarding the claiming rights of omega Clara Dawson," Tyverian continues, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "The Council will hear arguments from both parties before rendering judgment."

Vorthrax steps forward, his massive form seeming to expand as he addresses the Council. "My challenge rests on established law," he begins, voice carrying the distinctive rasp of draconic vocal cords. "The omega was discovered and claimed in disputed territory along the border between my domain and Commander Emberscale's. According to ancient draconic law, such claims must be properly registered with the Council within three days to become irrevocable."

He produces a scroll with dramatic flourish. "Records confirm that Commander Emberscale's registration was filed seventeen days after initial claiming—well beyond the required period. This procedural failure invalidates his exclusive rights to the omega."

Murmurs ripple through the assembled dragons as Vorthrax presents documentation confirming his assertion. The technical argument appears dangerously convincing, particularly with physical evidence supporting his claim.

"Furthermore," he continues, gesturing toward my visibly pregnant form, "while the omega has conceived, the offspring remain unborn. Their viability is yet unproven. Commander Emberscale's previous failures with claimed omegas suggest reason for concern regarding successful gestation to term."

The casual cruelty of this statement—referencing Kairyx's previous reproductive failures as evidence against his claim—sends ice through my veins. Beside me, I feel Kairyx's temperature spike, heat radiating from his scales in waves that would be concerning if I weren't already acclimated to his draconic warmth.

"The law is clear," Vorthrax concludes, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Improper registration in disputed territory creates grounds for challenge. I claim right of transfer for this omega and her potential offspring, to be properly integrated into my breeding program for the continuation of bronze-scale bloodlines."

Breeding program. The clinical phrase masks horrors I've heard whispered—omegas kept in drugged compliance, mated continuously without regard for recovery, children removed immediately after birth to prevent maternal bonding. A fate worse than my current captivity in every conceivable way.

"Commander Emberscale," Tyverian prompts, "your response?"

Kairyx steps forward, his posture betraying none of the rage I can feel simmering beneath his controlled exterior. "The Council recognizes that technical regulations exist to serve greater purpose, not as ends unto themselves," he begins, voice steady despite the slight smoke curling from his nostrils. "The intent of registration requirements is to prevent territorial conflict and ensure proper omega care following claiming. Both purposes have been fulfilled despite delayed paperwork."

His argument focuses on substance over procedure, essence over technicality. Under different circumstances, I might appreciate the strategy. But watching the Council's reactions—scaled brows lifting, vertical pupils narrowing—I can see his approach gaining limited traction against Vorthrax's clear-cut procedural violation.

My heart pounds against my ribs as the moment of decision approaches. What began as captivity has evolved into something far more complex—protection, partnership, possibilities I never anticipated. The twins flutter beneath my heart, seeming to sense my distress, their movements a physical reminder of what's at stake.

"Furthermore," Kairyx continues, "successful conception after seven previous failures demonstrates unique compatibility between myself and this omega. Separation at this critical juncture risks the viable offspring currently developing—offspring that represent continuation of obsidian-scale bloodlines otherwise facing decline."

More murmurs ripple through the assembly. Reproductive success carries tremendous weight in draconic society, particularly with their declining birth rates. Yet Vorthrax's technical argument remains compelling—law is law, particularly to tradition-bound dragons.

Something shifts inside me as I watch these beings debating my fate, my children's future, as if I'm merely property to be reassigned. Anger flares, hot and clarifying, burning through the fog of uncertainty that's clouded my thoughts for days.

Before Kairyx can continue or Vorthrax can rebut, I step forward, movement so unexpected it silences the chamber instantly. Every inhuman eye fixes on me with startled focus—a claimed omega asserting herself in formal Council proceeding violates every expectation of proper behavior.

"I have something to say," I declare, voice steadier than I feel, carrying clearly through the suddenly silent chamber.

Tyverian's eyes narrow, vertical pupils contracting to thin slits with surprise. After a moment that stretches like eternity, he inclines his massive head. "The Council recognizes the omega Clara Dawson."

Drawing a deep breath, I straighten to my full height—pitifully small compared to the draconic beings surrounding me, but defiant nonetheless. The twins move again beneath my heart, strength rather than burden.

"I accept Commander Kairyx Emberscale's claim freely and without reservation," I state, each word deliberate and clear. "His protection, his offspring, his territory are my choice above all alternatives."

Gasps and murmurs erupt around the chamber. An omega declaring willing acceptance of claiming—especially an omega known to have resisted initially—creates unprecedented situation in formal challenge proceeding.

"My claiming occurred under complex circumstances," I continue, voice gaining strength with each word. "But what began in capture has evolved through choice. I stand before you not as possession being disputed between territories, but as conscious being declaring deliberate preference."

I place one hand protectively over my rounded abdomen. "These children growing within me represent not just draconic bloodline continuation but new beginning—connection between species that might eventually bridge the divide between human and Prime understanding. I choose their father as my alpha. I choose his territory as my home. I choose continuation of what we've begun together."

The declaration, coming from previously resistant omega, creates ripples of reaction throughout the assembly. Dragons lean toward each other, scaled heads bent in urgent conversation. The Council members exchange meaningful glances, communicating in that subtle draconic language of eye movements and scale patterns I'm only beginning to decipher.

"Willing declaration by fertile omega carries significant weight," Tyverian observes, golden gaze assessing me with new interest. "Particularly when the omega demonstrates evident compatibility through successful conception."

"She's been coerced," Vorthrax interjects, rage making his bronze scales darken to near-copper. "Forced to parrot acceptance under threat."

I meet his red-gold eyes without flinching. "I spent ten years evading Prime detection. I survived a decade maintaining human independence through chemical suppression and calculated deception. Do I strike you as easily coerced, Commander Vorthrax?"

The question hangs in the air, unexpected assertion from claimed omega leaving even Vorthrax momentarily speechless. Beside me, I feel rather than see Kairyx's satisfaction, the slight ripple of his scales betraying emotion otherwise perfectly controlled.

Tyverian studies me with ancient eyes that have witnessed civilizations rise and fall. "The Council will deliberate," he finally announces. "All parties are dismissed until judgment is rendered."

As we exit the chamber, Kairyx's hand finds mine, clawed fingers intertwining with my smaller ones in gesture that feels alarmingly natural. We don't speak—words seem inadequate in the aftermath of what I've declared before draconic authority.

I've made my choice. Strategic submission, yes—but perhaps something else too, something that defies easy categorization but feels undeniably real. Not love, not yet, but possibility. Connection forged in captivity but tempered into something stronger, something that might eventually resemble partnership despite its coercive beginnings.

The only question that remains: will it be enough to sway the Council in our favor?