Page 24 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)
CHAPTER 23
NEW LIFE
The universe, it turns out, has terrible timing.
We've barely made it back to our chambers—Kairyx still in the healing pool, his scales smoldering from burns that would have killed any human instantly—when the first real contraction hits. Not the Braxton-Hicks practice rounds I've been experiencing for weeks. Not the strange power surge that happened during combat. This is the real deal—a vise-grip of pain that starts in my lower back and wraps around to my abdomen with brutal efficiency.
"Shit," I hiss through clenched teeth, hands instinctively moving to my swollen belly where the twins have apparently decided that surviving a life-or-death dragon combat wasn't enough excitement for one day. "Are you serious right now?"
Kairyx's golden eyes snap to me with laser focus, nostrils flaring as he scents the change. Even injured, even partially submerged in healing fluid, his alpha instincts kick in with terrifying speed.
"The young come," he growls, already rising from the pool despite the healers' protests. Glowing blue liquid cascades from his scaled body, steaming where it touches floor still hot from his injuries. "Get the birthing healers. Now."
The emerald-scaled healer who's been treating his burns stares at me with wide-eyed shock. "But she's only?—"
"Twenty weeks," I confirm, grimacing as another contraction builds. The accelerated dragon-hybrid gestation should have given me seven months instead of nine, but even that timeline put full-term at twenty-eight weeks—still two months away. "Too early."
"The combat," the healer murmurs, understanding dawning in her expression. "The power surge. It's triggered accelerated development."
Great. Magical labor. Because regular labor wouldn't be terrifying enough.
What follows is chaos dressed in ceremonial efficiency. Servants flood our chambers, transforming the space with practiced movements that suggest they've been preparing for this possibility all along. The healing pool where Kairyx was recovering is drained and refilled with different solution—this one steaming gently with earthy scent that somehow eases the building pain in my lower back.
A birthing platform appears—not the cold medical table I half-expected, but something closer to nest, with raised edges and soft material that cradles my body as the contractions increase in frequency and intensity. My ceremonial garments are removed, replaced with simple shift that provides necessary access while maintaining some semblance of dignity.
Through it all, Kairyx refuses to leave my side. His massive form, still closer to dragon than humanoid despite healers' clear preference that he shift to less intimidating shape, crouches protectively beside the birthing platform. His wounds clearly pain him—scales still smoking occasionally when he moves too quickly—yet he positions himself between me and the chamber entrance, golden eyes tracking every being who approaches with predatory assessment.
"The fire," I gasp between contractions, remembering the battle that feels simultaneously hours and seconds ago. "Your burns—you should be resting."
His rumbling laugh holds more pain than humor. "You birth our young. My discomfort is irrelevant."
The head birthing healer arrives—an ancient dragon with scales so pale they appear almost translucent in places. Her movements carry deliberate grace that suggests centuries of practice at bringing new life into the world. When she approaches the birthing platform, Kairyx tenses visibly, small flame escaping between gleaming teeth as instinct wars with reason.
"Commander," she addresses him with calm authority that somehow cuts through alpha protection instinct, "I must examine the omega to assess the young."
I've never seen Kairyx yield to another being before. The sight is both unsettling and oddly comforting—evidence that even apex predators recognize higher authority in specific domains. He shifts slightly, allowing her access to the birthing platform while maintaining defensive position.
Her examination is both clinical and strange—clawed hands gentler than I would have thought possible, moving across my abdomen with light touch that somehow sees beneath skin and muscle to the lives within. "The young come swiftly," she confirms, eyes shifting to vertical slits as she concentrates. "Their development accelerated by both combat energy and biological imperative."
"Are they okay?" The question tears from my throat as another contraction builds, stronger than the last. "It's too early—they can't possibly be?—"
"Dragon-human hybrids develop differently," she explains, voice carrying calm certainty that cuts through my panic. "When conditions threaten carrier or young, development accelerates to ensure viable birth. The combat energy you channeled has provided necessary strength for this adaptation."
My mind struggles to process this information through the haze of increasing pain. Apparently my magical moment during the combat did more than distract Vorthrax—it somehow gave the twins extra developmental boost, pushing them toward birth-readiness in matter of hours rather than weeks.
The ancient healer's expression shifts to something approaching wonder as her hands continue their gentle assessment. "Most remarkable. These young are unlike any hybrid I've encountered. Their integration is..." She pauses, searching for words. "Perfect. Balanced between bloodlines in way rarely achieved."
Before I can ask what exactly that means, another contraction hits—this one so powerful it arches my back off the birthing platform, drawing cry from my throat that echoes off stone walls. The pain is beyond anything I've experienced—beyond claiming, beyond heat, beyond even the terror of capture. It feels like being torn in half from the inside out.
"The first approaches," the healer announces, moving to position herself at the foot of the birthing platform. "Breathe, omega. Your body knows what to do even if your mind does not."
Easy for her to say. She's not the one being split apart by hybrid dragon babies apparently eager to make dramatic entrance into the world. But instinct takes over where conscious thought fails, my body somehow knowing rhythm of breath and push despite lack of any preparation for this moment.
Kairyx moves closer, his massive head level with mine, golden eyes fixed on my face with intensity that cuts through pain. One clawed hand extends toward me with uncharacteristic hesitation. Without thinking, I grab it, clutching scaled digits with desperate strength as another contraction builds. His skin burns hotter than human could tolerate, but after months of adaptation to his draconic heat, it feels like anchor rather than injury.
"I can't do this," I gasp between contractions, fear finally breaking through determination that's carried me this far. "I can't—it's too much?—"
"You can," he rumbles, certainty in his voice steadying me despite everything. "You are the strongest being I have encountered in centuries. These young could have no better bearer."
The strange compliment—acknowledgment of strength rather than mere biological function—somehow helps more than platitudes would have. I tighten my grip on his hand as the next wave hits, bearing down with newfound purpose.
What follows exists outside normal time perception. Hours collapse into moments that stretch to eternity; pain peaks beyond measurement then recedes just enough to catch breath before next assault. The birthing pool's solution helps, its properties clearly designed for this specific purpose, easing discomfort without dulling necessary sensation.
Throughout the ordeal, Kairyx remains constant presence—his injured form positioned to allow both protection of the birthing space and direct connection to me. When other healers approach too quickly, small warning flames shoot from his nostrils, the message requiring no translation: approach with proper reverence or don't approach at all.
"The first young emerges," the ancient healer announces, her voice cutting through pain-hazed consciousness. "One final effort, omega."
I dig deep, finding reserves of strength I didn't know existed. With one last tremendous push, I feel the unmistakable sensation of something—someone—leaving my body. The relief is immediate and overwhelming, tears springing to my eyes as pressure eases.
"A male," the healer pronounces, her clawed hands moving with practiced efficiency to clear tiny airways. "Strong. Healthy."
The cry that follows doesn't sound fully human or fully draconic—something in between that tugs at places in my chest I didn't know could be touched. Instinct overrides exhaustion, my arms reaching automatically as the ancient healer places tiny bundle against my chest.
The sight steals what little breath remains in my lungs.
He's perfect. Impossibly, wonderfully perfect. Tiny face still scrunched from birth trauma, skin flushed pink except for delicate patterns of obsidian scales that trace his spine like living tattoo. When his eyes open, they're golden—not the muddy newborn blue of human babies, but true gold with vertical pupils that contract slightly in the chamber's light. His fingers end in nails slightly too pointed to be fully human, and when he cries again, small wisps of smoke escape his perfect rosebud mouth.
"Hello," I whisper, voice raw from screaming. "Welcome to the world, little one."
There's no time for further greeting. The second contraction series begins almost immediately, my body already working to deliver his twin. The process moves faster this time, pathway cleared by first birth, my muscles remembering necessary pattern.
"A female," the healer announces minutes later as second cry joins first, this one slightly higher pitched but carrying same inhuman quality. "The pair is complete."
When they place my daughter beside her brother on my chest, the symmetry is striking. She bears identical obsidian scale patterns along her spine, same golden eyes that somehow manage to focus briefly on my face before closing in newborn exhaustion. Where her brother's tiny wisps of hair show hints of my chestnut color, hers appears pure black, already showing texture that suggests scaled ridges will form there as she grows.
"They're beautiful," I breathe, unable to look away from the miracle of these two beings who are neither fully human nor fully dragon but something entirely new. My children. Our children. Concrete evidence of what began as violation yet has somehow transformed into something I would never willingly surrender.
The chamber falls strangely silent as the twins settle against my skin. When I finally look up, I find every being in the room—dragon healers, human servants, guards positioned at entrances—staring at us with expressions ranging from wonder to confusion to something approaching reverence.
"What's happening?" I ask, instinctively pulling the twins closer against me. "Why is everyone staring?"
The ancient healer approaches slowly, respect evident in her careful movements. "The young carry unprecedented pheromonal signature," she explains, voice hushed with what sounds disturbingly like awe. "It affects all present—both human and dragon alike."
Now that she mentions it, I notice strange atmosphere in the chamber—tension dissolved, species barriers temporarily suspended as dragons and humans move together with unusual harmony. The twins' scent, subtle to my exhausted senses but clearly powerful to others, somehow bridges evolutionary divide that normally keeps predator and prey separate.
"They create connection," the healer continues, wonder evident in her ancient eyes. "In all my centuries, I have never witnessed such phenomenon."
Kairyx moves closer still, his massive head lowering to inspect our children with careful precision. When his snout gently touches each tiny head in turn, the twins stir but don't wake, somehow recognizing their father despite his inhuman form. His golden eyes, when they lift to meet mine, contain emotion I never imagined possible in draconic features—pride, wonder, and something dangerously close to tenderness.
"Our bloodline continues," he says, the simple statement containing volumes of meaning beyond mere reproduction. "In form more perfect than any before."
Exhaustion claims me then, the day's events finally overwhelming even adrenaline that carried me through combat, healing crisis, and birth. My eyes grow heavy as healers move efficiently around us, completing necessary post-birth procedures with practiced hands. The twins remain against my chest, their tiny bodies radiating heat that feels like perfect balance between human and draconic temperatures.
Before consciousness fades completely, I meet Kairyx's golden gaze one final time. No words pass between us, yet understanding flows with crystalline clarity. What began in violence and fear—his hunting me through Ashton Ridge, claiming me against my will during heat, changing my body and life without permission—has transformed through shared struggle and unexpected connection into bond neither of us could have anticipated.
Not love, not yet. But something equally powerful, equally binding. Something that transcends the categories of captor and captive, of monster and prey, of conqueror and conquered.
Something that these two perfect beings, nestled against my heart with their golden eyes and obsidian scales, embody more completely than words could ever express.
New life. New beginning. New world created not through conquest but through connection that bridges the divide between species designed to destroy each other.
As sleep claims me, I curl around the twins protectively, dimly aware of Kairyx's massive form settling beside the birthing platform—his body positioned to shield us from any threat, his wounds still healing but concern for his own comfort clearly secondary to guarding his mate and offspring.
His mate. The thought follows me into dreams, no longer causing revulsion or resistance but strange acceptance. Not Stockholm syndrome, not mere survival adaptation, but genuine evolution of relationship that began in captivity yet has grown into something I would now choose, if choosing were truly mine to do.
And perhaps, in some way I'm only beginning to understand, it finally is.