Page 2 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)

CHAPTER 1

HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT

My fingers tremble as I count them again. Seven pills. Only seven left.

I close my fist around the small amber bottle and press it against my sternum, where my heart hammers an anxious rhythm. Seven pills means seven days. Seven days until my next supply run, which wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that my body is already warming, the suppressants failing earlier than expected. Already, I can feel the telltale flush creeping up my neck, the subtle loosening of my muscles, my senses sharpening in ways that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with biology.

"Dammit," I whisper, the sound barely disturbing the hushed silence of the Ashton Ridge library's rare book room. The word feels inadequate for the spike of terror that accompanies it.

Ten years. Ten years of hiding what I am, of chemical suppression and vigilant paranoia, of watching other omegas being claimed or carted off to breeding facilities. Ten years of existing as Clara Dawson, beta librarian—invisible, forgettable, safe. And now, because of a simple miscalculation, it might all fall apart.

I uncurl my fingers and look at the bottle again. The label has long since worn away, but I don't need it. I know exactly what's inside—my lifeline, my protection, my chemical shield against a biology that would make me nothing more than a possession in this new world. I carefully slide it back into the hidden compartment beneath the floorboard, pushing aside the sudden, unwelcome thought that maybe this is inevitable. That maybe I've just been postponing the unavoidable.

No. I refuse to think that way.

The grandfather clock in the main reading room chimes three times, pulling me from my spiral of dread. I've spent too long in here, hidden away with my contraband and fears. With practiced movements, I replace the floorboard, ensuring it sits perfectly flush with its neighbors. The antique Persian rug slides back into place, concealing my secret as it has for years.

Rising to my feet, I straighten my sensible beige cardigan, smooth my practical brown skirt, and twist my chestnut hair more securely into its customary bun. The mirror on the wall reflects a woman of thirty-two who could be anywhere from twenty-eight to forty—deliberately forgettable, intentionally plain. A woman no one would look at twice.

The only tells are my eyes, hazel and too bright with the intelligence I've learned to mask. And now, if I look closely, the faint flush high on my cheekbones that has nothing to do with cosmetics.

A rap on the door makes me flinch.

"Miss Dawson?"

It's just Elijah, the teenage beta who helps shelve books after school. Not a dragon. Not a threat. My heart settles marginally.

"Yes?" I call back, my voice steady despite everything. A decade of practice has its benefits.

"There's a messenger here for you. From the administrative center."

And just like that, my heart resumes its frantic pace. Messages from the administrative center are never good news. They mean attention. They mean scrutiny. They mean danger.

"I'll be right out," I say, swallowing past the sudden dryness in my throat.

I take a moment to compose myself, to slide the mask of mild-mannered librarian firmly back into place. I am Clara Dawson, beta. I am forgettable. I am safe. The mantra repeats in my head as I unlock the rare book room door and step into the library's main space.

Elijah hovers nervously near the circulation desk, alongside a thin man in the gray uniform of a municipal messenger. I recognize him—Martin, a meek beta who handles official communications between the administrative center and the town's various institutions.

"Clara," Martin nods, his eyes darting around the library rather than meeting mine directly. "I've been instructed to deliver this notice personally and confirm your receipt."

He holds out a sealed envelope emblazoned with the insignia of the Draconic Imperium—a stylized black dragon curled around a mountain peak. Even touching paper marked with that symbol feels like contamination, but I reach for it with steady hands.

"Thank you, Martin. Consider it received." I manage a bland smile, the kind that reveals nothing.

He doesn't leave, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I'm required to wait while you read it. For any... immediate response."

The spike of adrenaline makes my fingers clumsy as I break the seal. Inside is a single sheet of heavy cream paper, the message printed in elegant, formal script:

By authority of the Draconic Imperium, notice is given that Commander Kairyx Emberscale will conduct inspection of the Ashton Ridge Historical Archive and Library tomorrow at 10:00 hours. All staff are to be present. Full access to all collections, including restricted areas, will be required.

The paper crinkles in my tightening grip. Commander Kairyx Emberscale. Not just any dragon, but the regional governor himself, the alpha who controls the entire Appalachian territory. A direct inspection hasn't happened in three years, and it's happening tomorrow—when my suppressants are already failing.

"Is there a response required?" Martin prompts, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

I force my fingers to relax, smoothing the paper with deliberate care. "Please inform the administrative center that the Ashton Ridge Library acknowledges the notice and will be prepared for Commander Emberscale's inspection."

Martin nods, clearly relieved to have completed his task without incident. "They said to tell you this is a routine inspection. Nothing to worry about."

Nothing to worry about. Of course. Just the most powerful alpha in five hundred miles coming to inspect my domain when my chemical defenses are compromised. Just the possibility of losing everything I've fought to preserve for the past decade. Just the threat of being claimed, my body no longer my own, forced to bear monster offspring for the glory of the Draconic Imperium.

"Thank you for letting me know," I say, my voice betraying none of my thoughts.

After Martin leaves, Elijah looks at me with wide eyes. "A dragon? Here? A real inspection?" His voice cracks with the mixture of fear and excitement only a teenager could muster for such news.

"It seems so," I say, moving to the circulation desk and sliding the notice into a drawer with mechanical precision. "We should prepare. I need you to help me ensure the main collection is properly organized. Everything needs to be in order."

"Sure, Miss Dawson," he says, but hesitates before asking, "Have you ever seen him before? Commander Emberscale?"

I have, once, from a distance during a territorial ceremony three years ago. I remember a massive form, obsidian scales glinting in sunlight, golden eyes surveying his domain with predatory intensity. I remember the instinctive shiver that ran through me, the primal recognition of apex predator that no amount of suppressants could fully quell.

"No," I lie. "I haven't had the privilege."

I spend the remaining hours until closing directing Elijah's efforts, checking catalog entries, and ensuring the public spaces are immaculate. All the while, my mind races, calculating options, escape routes, contingencies. If I double my dose tonight, perhaps I can suppress the warming for one more day. It will leave me with fewer pills, a narrower margin of safety, but it might get me through the inspection.

As the afternoon wears on, a dull headache forms behind my eyes, another warning sign that my biology is fighting the chemical restraints. Twice, I catch myself absentmindedly touching my neck, where an omega's scent gland would be most prominent during heat. Each time, I force my hand down, cursing my body's betrayal.

When Elijah finally leaves at five o'clock, I lock the front doors with shaking hands. Alone at last, I lean against the heavy oak door and let my head fall back with a soft thud.

"Just get through tomorrow," I whisper to myself. "Just one more day."

I push away from the door and walk slowly through the main reading room, trailing my fingers along the polished oak tables. The library has been my sanctuary, my hiding place, my domain. The irony doesn't escape me—that I, an omega in hiding, found safety amidst the most heavily regulated commodity in the post-Conquest world: knowledge.

The Primes, for all their brutality, value certain kinds of information. Historical archives like this one were preserved while other institutions were dismantled. As town librarian, I've had access to pre-Conquest texts, to history the resistance would kill to preserve. My position has offered protection, routine, purpose.

And loneliness. Always loneliness.

I climb the spiral staircase to the second floor, where floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of Ashton Ridge as twilight descends. The neat grid of streets, the mix of pre-Conquest buildings and newer structures built to accommodate dragon aesthetics. In the distance, the wider section of the town square serves as a landing zone for official visits. Tomorrow, it will host Commander Emberscale's arrival.

From this height, I can also see the designated omega housing near the administrative center—identical small homes with monitored entrances, where registered omegas live under constant surveillance. Their lives are regulated, their heat cycles tracked, their claiming arrangements approved by draconic authority. Many consider them fortunate compared to those in breeding facilities, but the thought of such an existence makes my skin crawl.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, closing my eyes against the sight. For a dangerous moment, I allow myself to imagine a different world—one where I don't need to hide, where my secondary gender isn't a death sentence or a breeding contract. What would it be like to just be an omega without fear? To experience the biological imperatives I've chemically suppressed for a decade?

The thought brings a confusing mix of longing and disgust. My body, free of suppressants, would cycle naturally. I would experience heat—the overwhelming need, the slick preparation, the desperate craving for alpha completion. The mere thought sends an unwelcome pulse of warmth through my core, and I jerk away from the window.

No. This is dangerous thinking, the kind that gets omegas claimed. I've seen what happens to them—eyes vacant with chemical dependency, bodies swollen with hybrid young, existing solely to satisfy alpha demands. I've counseled too many through the library's discreet information service, heard too many horror stories of claiming nights, of bodies forced to accommodate inhuman anatomy, of the slow erosion of self under biological imperative.

I return to the main floor and gather my things—a worn leather satchel containing nothing incriminating, a threadbare coat suitable for a beta of modest means. Before leaving, I walk through the rare book room one last time, checking that everything is secure. My fingers linger on the spine of a pre-Conquest medical text hidden behind a false catalog entry—the book that helped me formulate my suppressant regimen when commercial options became increasingly regulated.

The library settles around me, creaking gently as it does every evening. For a moment, I allow myself to breathe in the comforting scent of old books, of paper and binding glue and leather. Of safety. Of the one place in this new world where I've managed to carve out an existence on my own terms.

"One more day," I tell myself as I finally turn to leave. "Just get through one more inspection."

But as I step outside and lock the heavy doors behind me, the cooling evening air carries a hint of smoke—the unmistakable scent of dragon. A patrol, perhaps, or just an atmospheric remnant of their presence in the region. Either way, it's a reminder that tomorrow brings Commander Kairyx Emberscale himself.

And my body, warming beneath failing suppressants, knows exactly what that means.