Page 21 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)
CHAPTER 20
PREPARATIONS
The universe has this infuriating habit of revealing hidden depths right before everything might vanish. Like condemned prisoners suddenly noticing the exquisite blue of the sky, or terminal patients describing colors with newfound vibrancy in their final days. The ultimate cosmic taunt—here's what you've been missing, moments before it's snatched away.
That's how dragon culture unfolds before me now—suddenly, brilliantly illuminated on the precipice of potential disaster.
The day before combat arrives with ceremonial precision that catches me unprepared. I wake to find servants gliding into our chambers with silent efficiency, bearing vessels of carved stone filled with materials I can't immediately recognize. Our typical morning routine of breakfast and conversation dissolves into something ancient and solemn that predates human civilization itself.
"What's happening?" I ask Kairyx, who stands with unusual stillness as servants arrange these mysterious items throughout our quarters.
"Preparation," he answers, his tone weighted with ceremony. "Combat between alphas of our rank demands traditional observance. Especially when claiming rights hang in the balance."
"Observance" proves a magnificent understatement. Within hours, our private chambers transform into ceremonial space that would leave anthropologists breathless with academic excitement. The enormous hearth blazes with blue-tinged flames fed by minerals I've never encountered. The atmosphere fills with scents simultaneously alien and strangely compelling—volcanic ash, crystallized amber, herbs without human names.
Kairyx disrobes with solemn dignity, his towering form soon attended by scaled servants who begin applying thick black paste across his shoulders and chest in intricate designs. The substance contains volcanic ash, I discover, harvested from deep beneath Drake's Peak where magma still flows through primeval channels. The patterns aren't arbitrary but profoundly significant—protection sigils, strength amplifiers, honor marks declaring his bloodline and territorial rights.
"Dragon combat transcends mere physical confrontation," he explains while the servants work, his gaze following my curious observation. "It represents spiritual conflict between bloodlines, between philosophies of rule. The preparation acknowledges forces beyond individual combatants."
I watch, captivated, as ancient words flow in draconic language too complex for human vocal cords to reproduce. With each utterance, the black markings across his scales seem to consume more light, darkening until they resemble openings into boundless void. The temperature climbs noticeably as his fire-producing capabilities intensify—a physiological response to the ritual that resistance intelligence never documented or comprehended.
"Is this why Vorthrax challenged you through combat?" I ask, struggling to understand these revelations about beings we humans had simply categorized as destructive monsters. "Because of the spiritual dimension?"
"Partially." The patterns across Kairyx's shoulders shift subtly as servants apply more volcanic mixture. "Combat ritual existed before our emergence into this world. Among dragonkind, it represents the most honorable resolution when territory or mates face dispute. Vorthrax recognizes his technical advantage in Council proceedings, but fears his argument lacks spiritual legitimacy after your willing declaration."
"So he gambles that physical dominance will persuade cosmic forces to grant what legal maneuvering cannot?"
Appreciation rumbles through his chest. "Your grasp of complex motivations continues to impress, little librarian."
Before I can respond, female servants approach bearing bowls of different pastes—these ranging from deepest crimson to gold that captures and amplifies the firelight.
"You require preparation as well," Kairyx explains, noting my confusion. "As claimed mate carrying offspring, your connection influences combat outcome."
"What?" I stare in surprise. "I'm not fighting."
"Not physically," he acknowledges. "But your body houses our bloodline's continuation. Your strength reinforces mine through biological and spiritual connection. The markings acknowledge and strengthen these bonds."
The concept should offend my human sensibilities, appearing as primitive superstition or draconic manipulation. Instead, I find myself strangely moved by this assertion of connection beyond the merely physical. All our resistance briefings, all those clinical assessments of Prime psychology, and we never once considered the cultural and spiritual frameworks underlying these beings.
Not mindless monsters, but complex creatures with evolutionary histories and belief systems we never attempted to understand.
I surrender to the ritual with unexpected willingness, allowing the female servants to paint elaborate symbols across my pregnant belly. Each mark honors the twins growing within, connecting them to their father's bloodline and power. The most elaborate design encircles my claiming bite, the silvered scar tissue providing perfect canvas for spirals of gold that seem to pulse with my heartbeat once applied.
"These represent protection symbols," explains a servant, her dark green scales identifying her as a different subspecies than Kairyx. "They guard against spiritual interference during combat and strengthen bloodline connection."
Hours pass in this ceremonial preparation, tradition settling over us in layers as tangible as the ritual substances marking our skin. As servants apply the final symbols, their chanting crescendos until the very air vibrates with accumulated power.
And then, abruptly, we're alone.
Kairyx stands before me, his imposing form transformed by ritual markings. The black geometric patterns covering his obsidian scales seem to shift under certain light angles, creating the illusion of impossible depth. His eyes burn brighter than I've ever witnessed, pupils contracted to thin vertical slits betraying how profoundly the ceremony has affected him.
"You are beautiful," I say without thinking, the words emerging with raw honesty that would have been unimaginable mere months ago.
"As are you," he responds, his gaze traveling over the elaborate markings adorning my skin, lingering on my rounded abdomen where our children grow. "The symbols suit you. Human yet connected to draconic lineage, like our offspring will be."
The sun descends behind the mountains, marking our passage toward what might be our final night together. Servants return with evening sustenance—not our usual fare but ritual foods prepared with specific intent: strength, clarity, connection. We eat in companionable silence, tomorrow's weight hanging between us, unspoken but acknowledged.
As darkness falls completely, Kairyx builds the fire to a roaring blaze, flames catching blue highlights from minerals added during the day's ceremonies. The chamber fills with dancing shadows that feel protective rather than threatening, creating a sanctuary where only we exist.
My hands trace the patterns painted across my growing belly, fingers following whorls of crimson and gold symbolizing protection beyond my human comprehension. The twins shift beneath these marks, as if responding to the ancient power they represent.
When Kairyx enters the bedchamber, he's already partially transformed—wings half-extended, scales spread further across his form than he typically allows outside combat or flight. His eyes catch firelight, giving him an otherworldly appearance that once would have terrified me but now evokes an entirely different response.
"If I fall—" he begins, his voice rough with rarely displayed emotion.
I silence him by pressing fingers against his lips, surprising us both with my boldness. "You won't," I declare with conviction that feels like prophecy rather than encouragement. The symbols on my skin warm at the declaration, as if responding to certainty beneath my words.
His hand enfolds mine, bringing my fingers to his lips with deliberate gentleness. "You cannot know that, Clara. Vorthrax possesses greater size and has participated in more ritual combats. If outcomes were predetermined, trials would serve no purpose."
"Then don't speak as if defeat exists as possibility," I counter, something fierce awakening within me that transcends fear. "I didn't survive a decade of hiding, didn't endure claiming and heat and pregnancy, didn't stand before the Council declaring acceptance of all this, just to lose you to some oversized bronze lizard with territorial ambitions."
A surprised laugh escapes him, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Your spirit continues to astonish, little librarian. Perhaps I should bring you to the combat chamber to verbally eviscerate my opponent."
"I would, too," I threaten, only half-joking. The thought of Vorthrax's claims, of separation from Kairyx, of our children being taken—it awakens something primal and protective with nothing to do with omega biology and everything to do with what's grown between us.
Without conscious decision, I rise from my seat by the fire, approaching him with deliberate steps. My hands reach for him without hesitation, fingers tracing ritual markings that darken his scales to impossible depths. The touch ignites something between us—electricity with nothing to do with ceremony and everything to do with connection neither of us can deny any longer.
I guide him toward our bed, initiating what might be our final joining with intention bearing no resemblance to the captive I once was. His surprise registers in momentary stillness, in the brief widening of his eyes before hunger overcomes caution.
"Clara," he breathes my name like invocation, his scales shifting with emotions too complex for human categorization.
"No more words," I tell him, my hands continuing their exploration of his ceremonially-marked form. "Just be with me. Be in me. Whatever tomorrow brings, give me tonight to remember."
He needs no further encouragement. His mouth claims mine with heat bordering on burning, his hands cradling my face with careful strength that still amazes me—this being capable of pulverizing stone, treating my human fragility with such deliberate care.
When our bodies join, there's no resistance, no adjustment period. My flesh welcomes his dual lengths without hesitation, inner walls adapted through months of claiming to accommodate what once seemed impossible. The stretch remains—his draconic anatomy ensuring I feel every ridge, every inch of penetration—but now brings immediate pleasure rather than transformative pain.
"Perfect," he praises, his voice roughening as control slips further, smoke curling from his mouth with each exhale. "Taking me so beautifully."
I arch beneath him, meeting each powerful thrust with eager response that would shock my former self. My hands explore his transformed body—the ceremonial markings seeming to absorb light itself, the partially extended wings flexing with his movements, the increasingly draconic features marking his approaching combat form.
"Mine," I declare, claiming him as he has claimed me, the word emerging without conscious thought but carrying undeniable truth.
"Yours," he agrees, his eyes blazing with intensity that burns away pretense. "As you are mine."
When his knots begin to swell, locking us together in biological bond transcending species difference and initial coercion, I surrender to the sensation with enthusiasm rather than reluctance. My inner muscles clench deliberately around the expanding bases, milking his response with practiced skill developed through months of evolution from unwilling captive to eager participant.
"Whatever began between us as captivity has become choice," I tell him as our bodies remain joined, his burning seed flooding my already pregnant womb in waves triggering aftershocks of pleasure through my oversensitized flesh. "I may never have chosen this world or these circumstances, but I choose you now."
The declaration hangs between us, weightier than any claiming bite or Council testimony. Acknowledgment of truth we've both been circling—that something genuine has grown from toxic beginning, that connection forged in force and fear has transformed into relationship neither could have anticipated.
His wings envelop us, creating private sanctuary within our already isolated chamber. The ceremonial markings on our bodies pulse in unison, draconic symbols connecting us beyond mere physical joining. When he finally speaks, his voice carries conviction matching my own.
"Tomorrow I fight not just for territorial rights or claiming privileges," he says, his hand resting protectively over our growing children. "I fight for what we've created between us—something neither draconic nor human but entirely new."
I trace the ritual patterns adorning his chest, following their intricate whorls with fingertips that come away slightly darkened from ceremonial ash. "Then remember that when facing him. Remember what awaits you after victory."
His expression softens into something I never imagined possible on draconic features when we first met—tenderness, vulnerability, emotions transcending simple possession or biological imperative.
"I will carry it like armor," he promises, scales warming beneath my touch. "Stronger than any ritual preparation."
We remain tangled together as night deepens toward what might be our final hours of peace. The ceremonial markings glow faintly in the dying firelight, symbols of protection and connection bridging the divide between our species. Tomorrow brings blood challenge that will determine our future—victory securing the fragile bond we've built, defeat tearing apart what has only begun to form.
But tonight, locked together in biological and emotional connection neither of us can any longer deny, we've already won something neither expected to find in this new world of conquerors and conquered. Something beyond captivity, beyond claiming, beyond the simple categories of monster and prey.
Something worth fighting for.