Page 7 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)

CHAPTER 6

BURNING FROM WITHIN

Dawn arrives like an assassin—silent, merciless, and unwelcome. I open my eyes to find sunlight streaming through the balcony curtains with offensive cheerfulness, as if this is just another ordinary day and not the second morning of my captivity.

Except opening my eyes is a mistake. Pain lances through my skull the moment light hits my retinas, a white-hot needle drilling from temples to brainstem. I groan and roll away, burying my face in a pillow that suddenly feels like it's stuffed with broken glass rather than down.

The withdrawal has officially begun.

I've read about this in contraband medical texts—what happens when a long-term suppressant user stops abruptly. Clinical descriptions talked about "discomfort" and "temporary hormonal recalibration." What a sanitized way of saying it feels like your body is declaring war on itself.

Fever burns through me, a wildfire consuming everything in its path. My skin feels simultaneously too tight and too thin, like I'm about to burst out of it or it might tear away completely. Sweat soaks the sheets beneath me, yet my teeth chatter with bone-deep chills that make my muscles spasm painfully.

This is what freedom from chemical restraint feels like. Ironic.

The hours blur together, marked only by the shifting angles of sunlight across the floor. I drift in and out of consciousness, awareness coming in fragmented snapshots:

Elara's hands pressing cool cloths to my forehead, her voice a distant murmur telling me to drink something bitter.

The mountain wind from the balcony carrying scents so intense they make me gag—pine needles, mineral-rich stone, distant smoke.

My own gasping breaths as another wave of fever breaks, leaving me drenched and shivering.

During one moment of clarity, I force myself to catalog my symptoms with scientific detachment. It's a desperate attempt to maintain control, to keep some part of my mind above the biological chaos consuming me.

Elevated heart rate: approximately 120 beats per minute, occasionally spiking higher during fever surges.

Dilated pupils: light sensitivity increasing, colors appearing unnaturally vivid.

Hypersensitive skin: fabric against my body feels like sandpaper one moment, then triggers waves of unwanted pleasure the next.

And most damning of all—the betraying slick beginning to form between my thighs despite the absence of an alpha trigger. My omega biology preparing for what comes next, regardless of my conscious rejection.

"Fascinating," a deep voice rumbles from somewhere nearby, shattering my clinical analysis. "You're documenting your own transformation. I didn't expect such...academic distance."

Kairyx. How long has he been watching? My vision swims as I try to focus on his massive form, now seated in a chair that seems comically inadequate for his size. The effort costs me, sending a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach.

"Go away," I manage, the words scraping my throat like barbed wire.

He ignores me, golden eyes tracking the flush spreading across my exposed skin. "The purging is progressing faster than anticipated. Your system must be particularly responsive to the herbs."

Lucky me. My reward for good biological compliance: an accelerated timeline toward the inevitable claiming. I want to spit something vicious at him, but another bone-deep chill wracks my frame, stealing coherent thought as my teeth chatter audibly.

To my surprise, he doesn't gloat or press his advantage. Instead, he rises and adjusts the blankets around me with unexpected care, his movements precise and controlled. The heat radiating from his body offers momentary relief from the chills, my treacherous omega biology responding to alpha proximity with a wave of endorphins.

"Your resistance impresses me," he says, voice lower than before. "Most omegas who've suppressed this long break more quickly. Your will is...unusual."

The compliment, if that's what it is, makes no sense coming from my captor. Shouldn't he want more compliance, less resistance? The contradiction is almost as disorienting as the fever.

"My body is merely a chemical system," I murmur, struggling to maintain focus. "This is just...biology recalibrating. Not surrender."

His rumbling laugh vibrates through the air between us. "Your body is merely preparing for what comes next," he corrects, the words carrying absolute certainty. "The purging removes artificial barriers. What emerges isn't new—it's what was always there, buried beneath chemical suppression."

I want to argue, but another wave of fever crashes over me, dragging me under consciousness with ruthless efficiency. The last thing I see is Kairyx's golden eyes studying me with predatory patience—waiting, watching, knowing the inevitable outcome.

The next time awareness returns, night has fallen. The room is bathed in the orange glow of firelight, shadows dancing across stone walls like living things. My sheets have been changed, I notice distantly. Fresh fabric beneath me, cool against feverish skin.

Elara sits nearby, her weathered hands working a needle through fabric with practiced ease. The rhythmic motion of her stitching anchors me somehow, a small piece of normal humanity in this monstrous situation.

"Water," I croak, my throat so dry it feels cracked.

She's beside me instantly, helping me sit up, pressing a cup to my lips. The cool liquid is the most exquisite thing I've ever tasted, better than any wine, sweeter than any nectar. I drain it greedily, some spilling down my chin in my desperation.

"Easy," she murmurs, steadying my shaking hands. "Small sips."

Only when my thirst is somewhat quenched do I notice what she was sewing—a nightgown of pale silk, delicate and beautiful. Clothing for an omega about to enter heat. Clothing for claiming.

Panic surges through me, momentarily overriding the fever. "How long?" I demand. "How long until..."

Elara understands what I can't bring myself to say. "The Commander believes by tomorrow night. Your body is processing the herbs remarkably quickly." She wipes my face with a damp cloth, her touch impersonal yet somehow kind. "He's pleased with your progress."

Pleased with my body's betrayal, she means. Pleased that the vessel he intends to breed is preparing itself efficiently for his use. The thought should fill me with rage, but I'm too exhausted, too overwhelmed by physical sensation to muster the appropriate fury.

"Why are you helping him?" I ask again, the question that's been haunting me since I arrived.

Elara's hands pause in their ministrations. "I'm helping you," she corrects. "There's a difference. What comes will happen regardless—I merely seek to make it less traumatic."

Before I can question her further, the door opens to admit Kairyx once more. He's become a fixture of my fevered days, appearing at regular intervals to monitor my "progress." Each visit follows the same pattern—he observes, comments on the changes in my scent or coloration, sometimes asks questions I refuse to answer.

Today is different. He carries books in his massive hands, a stack of leather-bound volumes that seems incongruous with my image of a conquering monster.

"Leave us," he commands Elara, who bows and exits without question.

Terror spikes through me, sharp enough to cut through the fever-haze. Is this it? Has he decided not to wait for full heat? My heart races painfully against my ribs as he approaches, certain he can hear its frantic tempo.

But instead of reaching for me, he places the books on the bedside table with surprising gentleness.

"Your scent carries notes of intelligence beneath the fever," he states, as if this is a perfectly normal observation. "These might help occupy your mind between withdrawal waves."

I blink in confusion, trying to reconcile this gesture with everything I know about dragon alphas. The titles swim before my eyes, but I make out references to ancient history, pre- Conquest literature, and even what appears to be draconic philosophy.

"Why would you..." I begin, unable to complete the question as another wave of chills chatters my teeth.

"Intelligent breeding stock produces more viable offspring," he says, the clinical assessment a harsh reminder of my purpose here. Yet something in his tone suggests this isn't his only motivation.

He moves closer, nostrils flaring as he scents the air around me. "Your omega notes are strengthening by the hour," he observes. "The chemical taint is almost gone."

The proximity of an alpha during withdrawal is both torment and relief. His presence triggers stronger physical reactions—my pulse racing, skin flushing hotter, the embarrassing slick between my thighs increasing noticeably. Yet simultaneously, something in his pheromones soothes the worst of the symptoms, my omega biology responding to the alpha it was designed to complement.

It's this contradiction that terrifies me most—that his presence can bring relief even as it heralds my ultimate captivity. My body recognizing its biological match even as my mind rejects him completely.

"Get out," I whisper, unable to bear the confusion his presence triggers.

Surprisingly, he complies, moving toward the door with that predatory grace that makes human movement seem clumsy by comparison. At the threshold, he pauses, his eyes glinting in the firelight.

"Tomorrow," he says, the single word heavy with promise and threat combined. "Your heat will manifest fully by tomorrow night. I suggest you use these final hours of clarity wisely."

After he's gone, I curl into myself, arms wrapped tightly around my middle as if I could physically hold my fragmented self together. My fevered mind registers the contradiction—monstrous captor providing comfort to his prisoner—before another wave of withdrawal drags me back into delirium.

The third day brings a different kind of hell. The violent fever breaks around dawn, leaving me drenched in sweat but suddenly, terrifyingly lucid. This isn't recovery, though. This is transition—the purging nearly complete, my body preparing for what comes next.

My senses have sharpened beyond anything I've experienced in a decade. I can smell everything—the mountain stone, the beeswax in the candles, the lingering traces of Elara's herbal sachets. Colors appear more vivid, sounds more distinct. When Elara brings breakfast, the scent of fresh bread nearly brings tears to my eyes with its complexity and richness.

"The worst of the purging is over," she confirms, watching me pick at food that tastes too intense to be comfortable. "How do you feel?"

How do I feel? Like a stranger in my own skin. Like something is awakening inside me that I've kept drugged and dormant for ten years. Like my body is becoming a precision instrument calibrated for a single purpose I've spent my adult life rejecting.

"Different," is all I say.

She nods, understanding more than I've voiced. "The Commander will visit this afternoon. There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe. I suggest you bathe and prepare yourself."

Prepare myself. As if one can prepare for biological imprisonment. As if I could somehow make myself ready to surrender my body's autonomy to a monster who sees me as nothing but a vessel for his offspring.

Still, the idea of washing away days of fever-sweat holds undeniable appeal. I drag myself to the bathing chamber on shaky legs, each step sending new sensations through hypersensitive nerve endings. The cool stone beneath my feet, the silk of the robe against my skin, the air currents as I move—everything registers with unnecessary intensity.

The bath proves simultaneously torturous and blissful. Water that would normally feel pleasantly warm now borders on overwhelming, each droplet distinct against skin that's become a landscape of pure sensation. I scrub away days of illness, watching the suds swirl away along with the last chemical traces of the person I've pretended to be for a decade.

As I rise from the water, I catch my reflection in the polished metal mirror and freeze in shocked recognition. The woman staring back at me is simultaneously stranger and more familiar than the beta librarian I've presented to the world.

My eyes seem larger, brighter, the hazel irises rimmed with gold that wasn't there before. My lips appear fuller, cheeks flushed with color that isn't fever but something else—the visual markers of omega biology expressing itself after years of suppression. Even my body has subtly changed, curves more pronounced, skin literally glowing with health despite days of illness.

This is what I've hidden. This is what I've denied. This is what suppressants have masked from the world and from myself.

I dress in the clothing Elara left—simple but fine, a dress of deep blue that feels almost obscenely soft against my sensitized skin. The garment is cut to flatter rather than conceal, emphasizing the omega characteristics I've hidden for so long. I hate it. I hate how right it feels.

When Kairyx arrives that afternoon, I'm sitting by the balcony, one of his books open in my lap though I haven't managed to focus on the words. The mountain air carries his scent to me before the door opens—smoke and cinnamon and something metallic, unmistakably alpha, unmistakably him.

My body responds instantly, a rush of heat flooding my core, slick gathering between my thighs in Pavlovian preparation. I grip the book hard enough that my knuckles turn white, fighting for control that seems increasingly elusive.

He fills the doorway completely, taking in my changed appearance with visible satisfaction. The scales across his shoulders seem to gleam more vibrantly than before, catching the light with iridescent highlights that draw my unwilling gaze.

"The transformation is nearly complete," he says, moving into the room with predatory grace. "Your natural scent is..." He inhales deeply, eyes momentarily closing in what looks disturbingly like pleasure. "Remarkable. Complex. Worth the wait."

I should respond with defiance, with the anger that still burns beneath this new biological awareness. Instead, I find myself speechless, my body reacting to his proximity in ways my mind cannot control. My heart races, pupils dilate, skin flushes—all the involuntary responses of an omega in the presence of a compatible alpha.

"This isn't me," I finally manage, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.

"It is exactly you," he counters, moving closer still. "For the first time since I found you, I'm meeting the real Clara Dawson, not the chemical construction you've hidden behind."

He reaches out, one clawed finger tracing the air near my cheek without actually touching—testing my reaction, I realize distantly. Even this non-contact sends shivers cascading through me, my neck tilting unconsciously to expose my scent gland in omega submission.

I jerk away, horrified by my body's automatic response. "Don't touch me."

"I don't need to," he says, satisfaction evident in his deep voice. "Not yet. Your heat is hours away, not days as I originally estimated. By nightfall, you'll be begging for my touch."

The casual certainty in his voice triggers something beyond fear, beyond anger—a bone-deep knowledge that he's right, that the biological imperative currently rewriting my nervous system will indeed reduce me to begging before this is over.

"I would rather die," I tell him, meaning every syllable despite the evidence my body presents to the contrary.

Kairyx's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his golden eyes—a brief flicker that might be respect before it's subsumed again by predatory patience.

"Many have said that," he acknowledges, moving back toward the door. "None have meant it once their heat fully manifests." He pauses at the threshold, scales rippling slightly across his shoulders—a physical tell of his own biological response to my emerging omega scent. "Rest while you can, Clara. Tonight will change everything."

The door closes behind him with quiet finality, leaving me alone with the terrifying awareness of my body's continuing transformation. The withdrawal is complete; what comes next is something I've successfully avoided for ten years.

Heat. Claiming. Surrender.

I curl into myself on the window seat, arms wrapped around my middle as if I could somehow hold my fragmenting identity together through sheer physical force. The mountain spreads before me, vast and indifferent to my plight, while inside me, omega biology systematically dismantles every defense I've built.

By nightfall, I will no longer be Clara Dawson, beta librarian, resistance sympathizer, independent woman. I will be reduced to the most primal biological imperative—an omega in heat, existing solely to be claimed.

And there's absolutely nothing I can do to stop it.