Page 3 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)

CHAPTER 2

THE COMMANDER ARRIVES

The town square transforms overnight into a monument to draconic vanity. Staff from the administrative center arrive at dawn, setting up ceremonial banners emblazoned with the Draconic Imperium's insignia. Their efficiency speaks volumes about the fear driving them—every fold perfect, every placement measured twice. I watch from the library's upper windows as they scurry about like ants preparing for a storm.

Pathetic. And yet completely rational.

When Commander Kairyx Emberscale last visited Ashton Ridge three years ago, an administrator who failed to properly display territorial colors was publicly reprimanded. The man disappeared the next day. Official report: voluntary transfer to another settlement. Reality: who knows? Who dares ask?

My own preparations are more subdued but no less desperate. I swallowed two pills last night instead of my usual one—double the dose, double the protection, double the risk to my already taxed liver. The tremor in my right hand tells me my body isn't happy with this decision. Neither is the persistent headache drilling behind my eyes.

Small prices to pay for survival.

I smooth down my most professional outfit—a charcoal gray skirt suit that hangs slightly loose, deliberately chosen to hide any curves that might betray my omega physiology. My chestnut hair is twisted into a severe bun that pulls uncomfortably at my temples, adding to my headache but eliminating any hint of softness from my appearance. No makeup, sensible shoes, wire-rimmed glasses I don't actually need but which add a scholarly severity to my face.

Beta librarian. Forgettable. Unremarkable. Safe.

"Miss Dawson?" Elijah's voice carries up the stairs, higher than usual with nervous energy. "They're saying he's coming! The watchtower spotted him crossing the ridge!"

My stomach lurches, a queasy flip that has nothing to do with the excess suppressants and everything to do with primal fear. "I'll be right down," I call back, my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system.

One last glance in the small mirror I keep in my office drawer. Pale face, shadows under hazel eyes, lips pressed into a thin line of determination. I look ill, which works in my favor—illness masks the subtle signs of omega biology fighting through chemical constraints.

The town's warning siren begins its low, mournful wail—the signal for a high-ranking Prime's approach. Three long tones, a pause, then three more. Down in the streets, humans scurry to their designated observation areas. Not hiding—dragons hate when humans hide, interpreting it as resistance rather than fear—but standing in neat rows, heads appropriately bowed, bodies visibly available for inspection.

I make my way downstairs, where Elijah waits by the circulation desk, his gangly teenage frame vibrating with a mixture of terror and the forbidden excitement that comes with witnessing something so dangerous up close.

"Is everything ready?" I ask, though I know it is. We spent hours yesterday ensuring every book was in place, every surface dusted, every regulation visibly followed.

"Yes, ma'am." He nods vigorously. "Do we—do we go outside? To watch him land?"

I shake my head. "The notice specified he would conduct an inspection of the library. We'll await him at our posts."

The relief on Elijah's face is almost comical. Almost, except there's nothing funny about the situation. Dragons are not tourist attractions to be gawked at; they're apex predators with human civilization caught firmly between their teeth.

The siren stops abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Then comes a sound like distant thunder—massive wings displacing air, growing louder with each passing second. The windows rattle in their frames as the sound builds to a physical pressure against my eardrums.

And then, darkness falls—sudden and absolute as a massive shadow passes over the library, blocking out the morning sun. The entire building trembles, dust motes dancing in the beams of light that return as suddenly as they vanished.

"Holy shit," Elijah whispers, eyes wide as dinner plates.

I should reprimand him for the language, but I can't find my voice. My omega biology, though heavily suppressed, responds instinctively to the proximity of such a powerful alpha. Heat floods my core, a rush of unwanted arousal that makes my knees weak. I grip the edge of the circulation desk until my knuckles turn white, fighting for control.

The ground shakes with the impact of landing, a seismic announcement of power that needs no interpretation. Books rattle on their shelves; the chandelier in the main reading room sways dangerously. Outside, I hear the collective gasp of the gathered townspeople.

Thirty seconds later, the heavy oak doors of the library swing open with a dramatic force that sends them crashing against the walls. And there, silhouetted against the morning light, stands Commander Kairyx Emberscale.

My first thought, ridiculous in its inadequacy: He's bigger than I remembered.

Nearly seven feet of solid muscle and scaled power fills the doorway, shoulders so broad they nearly brush both sides of the frame. Obsidian scales cover his shoulders and run down his spine, visible where they emerge from the formal military-style jacket that does nothing to soften his inhuman nature. Instead, the black uniform with its silver insignia of rank only emphasizes the predator wearing it—civilization as the thinnest veneer over something ancient and lethal.

His face might almost pass for human at a distance—if humans had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and jawlines that could have been carved from granite. Up close, the illusion shatters completely. His skin has a subtle texture to it, not quite scaled but definitely not mammalian. His ears sweep back into slight points, and from his forehead curve two impressive horns, their surface marked with subtle ridges that I know, from my contraband research, indicate his age and status.

But it's his eyes that freeze the breath in my lungs. Golden, literally glowing with internal light, with vertical pupils that dilate and contract as they sweep the room with predatory assessment. Dragon's eyes in a face that's trying to accommodate human interaction without actually becoming human.

He steps inside, each movement controlled power, followed by two smaller dragons in similar uniforms—smaller being entirely relative, as both still tower over any human in town. Guards, or perhaps administrative aides. Behind them comes a human man in the gray uniform of a territorial administrator, clutching a tablet and looking appropriately subservient.

Commander Emberscale stops in the center of the main room, where the morning light from the high windows creates a natural spotlight. Whether by design or instinct, he positions himself perfectly within it, the light gleaming off his scales and the polished silver insignia at his collar.

"Who is in charge of this facility?" His voice rumbles through the space like distant thunder, deep enough that I feel it in my chest as much as hear it with my ears.

Self-preservation wars with responsibility. For one shameful second, I consider pushing Elijah forward, sacrificing him to that golden gaze. But I am the head librarian. This is my domain, the only place in this new world where I have any semblance of authority or purpose.

"I am, Commander." I step forward, forcing myself to move with calm precision rather than the cringing deference he likely expects. "Clara Dawson, head archivist and librarian."

Those golden eyes lock onto me, and the world narrows to the space between us. I feel the weight of his attention like a physical pressure, a predator's assessment of potential prey. Keep breathing. Don't show fear. Betas aren't afraid; they're respectful.

"You've prepared for this inspection?" The question is perfunctory; the real communication happens in the way he's studying me, head tilted slightly to one side.

"Yes, Commander. We received your notice yesterday and have ensured all collections are accessible for your review." I'm impressed by the steadiness of my voice, given that my internal organs seem to be attempting a complex gymnastics routine.

"Good." He turns to the human administrator. "Wait outside with the guards. I prefer to conduct inspections without distraction."

The man bows low—too low, sweat beading visibly on his forehead—and backs toward the door. The dragon guards follow with considerably more dignity. The doors close with a resounding thud that feels horribly final.

"You as well, boy," Commander Emberscale says to Elijah, who looks like he might faint from relief at being dismissed. "I wish to speak with the head librarian alone."

Elijah practically sprints for the side door, leaving me abandoned in the sudden vast emptiness of the main reading room. Alone with a dragon alpha who could tear me apart with casual ease, whose very presence makes the air feel thick and superheated.

"Show me your archives," Commander Emberscale instructs, moving toward me with that predatory grace that makes human movement seem clumsy by comparison. "I have particular interest in your pre-Conquest historical texts."

Heat radiates from him as he draws near, the natural elevated temperature of dragon shifters turning the comfortable library into something approaching a sauna. I fight the instinct to step back, to maintain distance. Betas wouldn't fear proximity; they'd just be professionally respectful.

"This way, Commander." I gesture toward the main collection, then lead the way, painfully aware of his massive presence behind me. I can feel his gaze on my back like a physical touch, raising the fine hairs on my neck.

Focus on the job. Be the librarian. Show him the damn books and get him out.

"Our pre-Conquest collection survived relatively intact," I explain as we move between the towering shelves. "The settlement's location in the mountains protected it from the worst of the initial conflict, and once the Draconic Imperium established control, preservation orders were implemented."

"Fortunate." The single word contains multitudes—approval, certainly, but also something possessive. These books, this knowledge, belongs to him now, just as the town does, just as I would if my secret were discovered.

I guide him through the main collection with professional detachment, maintaining maximum distance while still appearing helpful. Each section I show him is one step closer to the end of this inspection, one step closer to safety. His questions are surprisingly specific, demonstrating a knowledge of human history that unnerves me further. This is not the mindless destroyer from resistance propaganda; this is something more dangerous—intelligence paired with overwhelming power.

His massive presence makes the library feel suddenly cramped, shelves that have always seemed spacious now crowded by his bulk. As we move deeper into the stacks, the air grows warmer still, stifling with his draconic heat and the unmistakable alpha scent that even my dulled senses can detect—smoke and hot metal, something like cinnamon layered over raw power.

I breathe through my mouth to minimize exposure to that scent, but it's a mistake. Tasting his presence in the air is somehow worse, more intimate, sending an unwelcome pulse of heat through my core. I silently curse my traitorous body, doubling down on my beta librarian persona.

We reach the rare books section, and I feel a moment of relief. Almost done. Almost safe. Just show him the oldest materials, answer his questions, and then he'll leave.

I unlock the heavy door with hands I refuse to allow to tremble. "Our most valuable artifacts are preserved in climate-controlled conditions," I explain, pushing the door open. "We maintain temperature and humidity levels specifically calibrated for materials of this age."

He follows me into the smaller room, and the space instantly shrinks to claustrophobic dimensions. The rare book room has always been my sanctuary, my hiding place. Now it feels like a trap, with only one exit and seven feet of scaled predator between me and escape.

I focus on the task, gesturing to the glass-fronted cases containing our oldest manuscripts. "These texts date from approximately fifty years before the Conquest. Some are quite rare—historical accounts of early settlement in the region, personal journals, scientific observations of local flora and fauna."

Commander Emberscale moves to the cases, studying the displayed pages with obvious interest. I allow myself the smallest breath of relief as his attention shifts from me to the artifacts. He's asking about preservation techniques, about cataloging methods, normal questions that require professional answers. This is working. Just a few more minutes and?—

He freezes mid-sentence, his massive body going suddenly, unnaturally still. His nostrils flare, and his head turns toward me with deliberate slowness, with terrible purpose. His pupils contract to vertical slits as he inhales deeply, deliberately, his tongue flicking out slightly to taste the air—a gesture entirely draconic, abandoning the human pretense he's maintained until now.

"Interesting," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble that vibrates through the small room. "You smell... different from the other humans in this settlement."

Ice floods my veins, followed immediately by fire. He knows. Or suspects. The extra suppressant was a mistake—changing my chemical signature, creating inconsistency that his enhanced senses detected. Ten years of careful hiding undone by a simple miscalculation.

"I've been unwell," I manage, the lie springing to my lips with desperate ease. "A minor infection. The doctor prescribed?—"

"No." The single word cuts through my excuse like a blade. He steps closer, and I instinctively retreat until my back hits the bookshelf behind me. "That's not illness I smell, librarian."

His massive form looms over me, head lowering as he deliberately scents the air around my neck, near where an omega's scent gland would be most active. I press myself harder against the shelves, as if I could somehow pass through solid wood through sheer desperation.

"What are you hiding, Clara Dawson?" he asks, my name transformed into something dangerous in his mouth. "What lies have you been telling?"

The world narrows to the inches between us, to him scrutinizing me with terrible focus, to the heat radiating from his massive body that triggers an answering warmth in my core that no amount of suppressants can fully quell. My heart hammers against my ribs with such force I'm certain he can hear it, can sense the fear and the unwanted response my omega biology is mounting to his alpha presence.

"Nothing, Commander." The lie tastes like ash on my tongue. "I don't know what you mean."

His smile is slow, predatory, revealing teeth too sharp to be human. "I think you do." He leans closer still, and my lungs forget how to draw breath. "I think you've been hiding something very significant indeed."