Page 6 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)

CHAPTER 5

GILDED CAGE

The door closes with the soft click of expensive craftsmanship rather than the clang of prison bars. Still a cage, no matter how they dress it up.

I give myself exactly ten seconds to breathe through the panic threatening to crush my chest. Ten. Nine. Eight. Count each breath, force oxygen into lungs that want to seize with terror. Seven. Six. Survival depends on clear thinking. Five. Four. Assess the situation objectively. Three. Two. Find the weaknesses. One.

Time's up. Survival mode engaged.

I prowl the perimeter of my gilded cage like the captive animal I've become, fingers tracing stone walls that hold the mountain's ancient chill despite the fire crackling in the massive hearth. The walls are solid, no seams or cracks that might indicate hidden passages. Logical. Dragons wouldn't need secret tunnels when they can simply fly between destinations.

The balcony offers the most obvious escape route, if one could call a thousand-foot drop to jagged rocks an "escape." I step through billowing silk curtains onto smooth stone. The view steals what little breath I've managed to recover—mountain ranges stretching to the horizon, valleys shrouded in mist, forest canopy broken occasionally by rivers that catch the afternoon sunlight like ribbons of quicksilver. Beautiful, in the way deadly things often are.

No railings, I note with morbid amusement. No need when the occupants have wings. The edge simply drops away into empty space, the unforgiving ground so far below it seems almost abstract. Not a viable exit unless my goal is suicide rather than freedom.

Back inside, I test the massive wooden doors through which Kairyx departed. Locked, of course. The mechanism yields slightly to pressure before stopping against what feels like a metal bar on the other side. I could maybe break through with sufficient force and tools, but then what? I'd still be inside a mountain fortress filled with dragons, with nowhere to go.

The bathing chamber Elara mentioned is next. It's obscenely luxurious—a sunken tub large enough to swim in, carved from some iridescent stone that shimmers with hidden colors. Fixtures that appear to be genuine gold deliver water at the turn of a tap. The opulence is jarring—even before the Conquest, I never had access to this kind of luxury. Here, in the aftermath of a world broken and remade, this dragon has created a bathing chamber that would make pre-Conquest billionaires envious.

No windows. No additional exits. Just more beautiful imprisonment.

The dressing room connected to it contains clothing that makes my cheeks burn—silks and satins in rich jewel tones, all cut to display rather than conceal. The fabrics slide like water through my fingers, finer than anything I've worn in my life, certainly finer than the practical cotton and wool that comprised my wardrobe in Ashton Ridge. I drop them as if burned. I won't be their dressed-up doll, their omega pet attired for alpha pleasure.

An hour of systematic exploration yields nothing useful. No secret passages, no weaknesses in the walls, no overlooked exits. Just luxury designed to contain an omega in comfort while she serves her purpose as dragon breeding stock.

The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me, strong enough that I sink onto one of the plush chairs, head between my knees, breathing carefully through my mouth. The double dose of suppressants I took is hitting my system hard, their effects magnified by stress and the high altitude. My vision swims at the edges, black spots dancing when I move too quickly.

A knock at the door interrupts my misery. Before I can respond, it opens to admit Elara, the older woman who'd been assigned as my attendant. She carries a tray with covered dishes that release steam when she sets them on the small dining table.

"You should eat," she says, her tone making it more command than suggestion. "The purging process requires strength."

"I'm not hungry." The words come out sounding petulant even to my own ears, but the thought of food makes my stomach turn.

"Nonetheless." She uncovers the dishes with efficient movements, revealing simple fare—a rich stew featuring chunks of meat and vegetables, fresh bread still steaming from the oven, a small pot of honey. Next to these sits a stone cup containing what looks like tea, but the herbal scent reaching my nose is unfamiliar, medicinal.

"The purging herbs," she explains, following my gaze. "Best taken with food to minimize stomach distress."

I eye the cup warily. "And if I refuse?"

The question hangs between us, revealing far more than I intended about my desperation. Elara's expression softens minutely, the first crack in her professional neutrality.

"Then they will be administered by less pleasant means," she says quietly. "The Commander has ordered your system cleared within three days. One way or another, it will happen."

Of course. My choices aren't really choices at all—just the illusion of agency within parameters already determined by my captor. Drink the herbs willingly or have them forced down my throat, perhaps literally. The outcome remains the same regardless.

"Why are you helping him?" I ask, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "You're human. How can you participate in this?"

Elara's hand moves unconsciously to her neck, where I notice for the first time the faded scar of a claiming bite, the mark nearly silvered with age. "I was claimed seventeen years ago," she says, eyes downcast. "By another dragon lord, not Commander Emberscale. When I failed to conceive after three years, he dismissed me to service rather than breeding facilities." Her voice holds no resentment, only resigned acceptance of her fate. "The Commander's household is... preferable to most alternatives."

Her words strike harder than she likely intends. She's offering me perspective—there are worse fates than being claimed by Kairyx Emberscale. In the post-Conquest world, this counts as a twisted form of good fortune.

"The Commander values your purity," she continues, busying herself with arranging silverware I have no intention of using. "He's particularly pleased to find an omega who has avoided monster contact. It makes your eventual surrender more... satisfying to them."

I swallow bile. "I won't surrender."

Elara's lips press into a thin line, not quite disagreement but close enough. "You should eat," she repeats, ignoring my declaration entirely. "And drink the herbs. The process is less severe when done willingly."

Fine. If I'm going to escape, I need strength. I need clarity. I need to understand this place, its routines, its weaknesses.

"Tell me about the fortress," I demand, switching tactics as I reluctantly pull the tray closer. "How many guards? How many exits? What's the routine here?"

A flash of something—amusement? pity?—crosses her face. "Drake's Peak houses approximately fifty dragons at any given time, plus human staff. The Commander's personal guard numbers twelve, all battle-trained and loyal to death. There are seven major entrances, all requiring flight to access, plus supply routes that involve climbing equipment and specialized knowledge of the mountain's framework." She pauses, letting the information sink in. "This is not a prison you can escape, Clara. It's a fortress designed by beings who can literally reshape stone with flame and claw."

Her frankness is almost refreshing. No false comfort, no platitudes. Just the stark reality of my situation.

"Human staff must have ways to move about," I press, taking a small bite of bread to appear cooperative. "Service tunnels, stairs..."

"All monitored," she cuts me off. "And leading nowhere but further into the mountain or to sheer drops outside." She sighs, something like genuine compassion entering her voice. "I understand your desperation. I felt it too, once. But the mountain is virtually impenetrable, with access routes requiring flight or climbing skills beyond human capability. Even if you somehow managed to leave this room, you'd find no path to freedom."

I bombard her with more questions anyway—about guard rotations, about the fortress layout, about Kairyx's daily routine. She answers some, deflects others, but the picture emerging confirms my worst fears. This place was designed by a strategic military mind specifically to be unassailable by human forces. My chances of escape are effectively zero.

"Is there anything else you require?" she asks when I finally fall silent, defeated by the impossible mathematics of my situation.

I glance at the stone cup, still untouched. "What exactly will these do to me?"

Her expression softens marginally. "They target the synthetic compounds in suppressants, breaking them down for elimination. The process takes approximately three days. The first day brings fever and chills as your system rebalances. The second intensifies as your omega biology reasserts itself. By the third..." She hesitates. "By the third, your natural cycle will begin."

Heat. She means heat. After a decade of chemical suppression, my omega nature will come roaring back with vengeance, leaving me vulnerable to claiming in the most fundamental way possible.

"Will it hurt?" The question escapes before I can stop it, childlike in its simplicity.

Elara's eyes meet mine directly for the first time. "Yes," she says simply. "But fighting it hurts more."

After she leaves, I stare at the cup for a long time, its contents now cold. I could refuse. I could force them to physically restrain me, to pour the herbs down my throat against my will. It would change nothing about the outcome, but it would be resistance, however futile.

In the end, practicality wins over symbolic defiance. I need my strength for battles that might actually matter. With a silent curse, I down the bitter liquid in one continuous swallow, gagging slightly at the aftertaste—earthy and sharp, with lingering notes of something metallic.

The effect isn't immediate, but within an hour, warmth begins to bloom in my chest, spreading outward to my limbs with languid inevitability. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive where fabric brushes against it. The room's temperature, previously comfortable, now seems stifling. I pace restlessly, trying to outrun the changes happening inside my body.

As twilight deepens outside, transforming the mountain vista into silhouettes against a violet sky, the real discomfort begins. First as muscle aches, then as waves of alternating heat and cold that have me shedding layers one moment and huddling beneath blankets the next. My heart races without provocation, then slows to a sluggish beat that makes me dizzy when I stand.

This is just the beginning, I realize with growing dread. Just the first chemical bonds breaking, the first barriers falling between my constructed identity and the omega biology I've denied for a decade.

Darkness has fully claimed the sky when the door opens again. Kairyx's massive form blocks the entrance completely, his silhouette unmistakable even in the dimness. He's changed from the tunic he wore earlier into something that resembles a dressing gown, though the term feels inadequate for the garment. Made from some dark, shimmering material, it drapes over his scaled shoulders and falls open at the chest, revealing more of the obsidian scales that pattern his torso in mesmerizing arrangements.

He studies me from the doorway, the gold in his eyes luminous in the firelit room. I realize I must look a wreck—hair disheveled from restless movement, clothes rumpled, skin flushed with the first stages of withdrawal.

"You took the herbs," he observes, satisfaction evident in his deep voice. "Wise choice."

"Go to hell," I mutter, but the venom I intend is diluted by the tremor in my voice.

He moves further into the room, each step deliberate, predatory. The fire's light plays across his scales, creating ripples of color that dance hypnotically across the polished surfaces. Despite my best efforts, my eyes follow the patterns, drawn to the alien beauty of his inhuman form. The suppressants are already failing enough that my omega biology responds to his alpha presence with unwanted awareness, my nostrils flaring slightly to catch his scent—smoke and cinnamon and hot metal.

"Your heat will begin soon," he says, studying the flush spreading across my skin with clinical interest. "Once your artificial chemicals fade, we'll see your true nature emerge."

"My true nature is exactly what you see now," I insist, wrapping arms around myself as another chill racks my frame. "The rest is just biology, not identity."

Something like amusement curves his mouth. "Such human thinking, to imagine the mind and body are separate entities." His tongue flicks out slightly, tasting my changing scent in the air—a gesture entirely draconic, unnerving in its alienness. "You'll learn. Your omega nature isn't something apart from you—it is you, the most fundamental truth of your being."

"You know nothing about me," I spit back, anger temporarily overshadowing discomfort.

"I know your body is already responding to my presence," he counters, moving closer still. "I can smell it—the first hints of omega sweetness breaking through chemical barriers. Subtle now, but growing stronger by the hour."

Humiliation burns through me, hot and bitter. Because he's right—beneath the misery of withdrawal, my treacherous body is already preparing for what comes next. The slick gathering between my thighs has nothing to do with choice and everything to do with biological imperative responding to the powerful alpha before me.

"I'll return when you're ready," he says, the words both promise and threat. "Fighting your biology only makes the eventual surrender more painful."

He leaves without touching me, which somehow feels more ominous than any physical claim might have been. The click of the door closing behind him sounds like countdown, like time slipping away.

His words linger after he's gone, echoing in my mind as I curl on the bed, arms wrapped tightly around myself as another wave of withdrawal wracks my body. Fighting only makes surrender more painful. As if surrender itself isn't painful enough.

The night stretches endlessly before me, each hour bringing new discomforts as my suppressed omega biology claws its way back to dominance. By midnight, the sheets beneath me are damp with sweat, my skin alternately burning and freezing as my system struggles to rebalance. My muscles ache from the inside out, bones seeming to grind against each other with every movement.

This is just the first day, I remind myself as darkness claims more of my consciousness. Two more to go before the real horror begins. Before heat. Before claiming. Before my body betrays me completely.

In the last moments before fitful sleep claims me, a terrible thought surfaces from the depths of my fever-hazed mind—what if Kairyx is right? What if my careful construction of identity, my decade of chemical suppression, has been nothing but elaborate denial of biological truth?

What if the omega emerging now is who I really am?

No. I cling to denial like a lifeline as consciousness slips away. I am Clara Dawson. I am more than biology. I am more than omega.

But as dreams take me, my body continues its inexorable transformation, returning to the nature I've denied for so long, preparing for the claiming that now seems inevitable.