Page 8 of Dragon’s Captive (Prime Omegaverse #1)
CHAPTER 7
brEAKING POINT
It begins with a jolt.
Not metaphorically—an actual electric sensation crackling across my skin. I snap awake in the pre-dawn darkness, every nerve ending suddenly, painfully alive. For one disoriented heartbeat, I wonder if lightning has struck nearby, if perhaps a storm has broken over the mountain during my sleep.
Then the second surge hits, and understanding floods me with terrible clarity: this isn't weather. This is biology. This is what I've chemically suppressed for a decade. This is heat.
Oh god.
The need rips through me like a wildfire, obliterating reason with terrifying efficiency. My flesh becomes a landscape of raw nerve endings that cry out for contact, for pressure, for anything to ease the maddening sensation building beneath the surface. It's nothing like the withdrawal fever—that was illness, discomfort, something I could endure through sheer stubborn will.
This is different. This is hunger in its most primal form.
I kick away the silk sheets that now feel like rough sandpaper against my hypersensitive skin. The cool morning air provides momentary relief, but within heartbeats, even that gentle touch becomes simultaneously too much and not enough—contradictions that somehow make perfect sense to my heat-addled mind.
Wetness floods between my thighs, soaking through the thin nightgown Elara left for me, the unmistakable scent of omega arousal permeating the chamber. My inner walls clench painfully around emptiness, creating a void so acute it borders on agony. My body desperately prepares itself for what evolution designed it to want, regardless of my conscious rejection.
It's overwhelming. Too intense. How does anyone survive this?
I curl into myself, arms wrapped tightly around my middle as if I could somehow contain the inferno building inside. But the pressure of my own arms against my breasts sends another bolt of unwanted pleasure-pain through me, tearing a gasp from my throat as my back arches involuntarily.
Is this what I've been hiding from? This devastating vulnerability? This complete loss of self to sensation? No wonder the Primes targeted omegas first during the Conquest—we're walking vulnerabilities, biological liabilities to our own species.
Another wave crashes over me, stronger than before. My hips buck involuntarily, seeking friction against the tangled sheets. The movement provides no relief, only intensifies the desperate need for something—someone—to fill the aching emptiness.
No. I refuse. I am more than biology. I am more than omega.
The mantra rings hollow even in my own mind, like reciting poetry while plummeting from a cliff—technically possible but utterly meaningless against the inevitable impact.
I stagger to the bathing chamber on unsteady legs, discarding the soaked nightgown as I go. Cold water. That's what I need. Something to shock my system, to cool the raging heat coursing through my veins. I turn the tap to its coldest setting and step beneath the spray, my breath hitching sharply as it hits my fever-flushed skin.
The relief lasts approximately ten seconds before my traitorous body adapts, the cold registering as just another type of stimulation against nerve endings now wired for a single purpose. I slam my fist against the tiled wall in frustration, the physical pain momentarily cutting through the fog of need.
This isn't working. Nothing will work except what my body is screaming for. Distantly, I recognize the hormonal cascade happening inside me—estrogen spiking to unprecedented levels, endorphins flooding my system, every chemical messenger conspiring to ensure I fulfill my biological imperative.
I shut off the water and stumble back to the bedroom, hair dripping, skin flushed and burning. The nightgown is ruined, so I frantically search the wardrobe, desperate for anything that might feel tolerable against my hypersensitive skin. But every fabric I touch feels wrong—too rough, too confining, too much.
In the end, I wrap myself in a silk robe, the material gliding over my wet skin with minimal friction. Even this light touch sends tremors cascading through me, my nipples hardening painfully against the delicate fabric. I pace the chamber like a caged animal, moving for the sake of movement, as if physical activity might somehow disperse the need coiling inside me.
It doesn't. Nothing helps. Nothing will help except?—
No. I won't even think his name. I won't give him that power.
Another wave hits, stronger than before. My knees buckle beneath me and I collapse onto the bed, a pathetic whimper escaping before I can swallow it back. The sound horrifies me—I don't whimper, I don't beg, I don't surrender.
Except apparently I do now, because more sounds follow, small desperate noises I can't control. The wetness between my thighs has become a humiliating flood, my body preparing itself with enthusiasm for a claiming I still mentally reject.
My fingers slip beneath the robe of their own accord, finding my swollen clit with desperate precision. The first touch sends a shock wave of pleasure so intense it borders on pain, tearing a cry from my throat. I rub frantically, seeking relief, but it's like trying to extinguish a forest fire with a teardrop—woefully inadequate against the scale of the conflagration.
My fingers slide lower, seeking to fill the aching emptiness. One, then two, then three—and still not enough, not nearly enough to satisfy what my body demands. The momentary relief from self-stimulation fades almost instantly, leaving me more desperate than before, the emptiness more acute for having been teased with insufficient fullness.
I sob in frustration, in humiliation, in rage at my biology's betrayal that's reduced me to this mindless, needy creature. Is this what I've been fighting against all these years? This complete surrender of self to sensation? This devastating vulnerability?
Through tear-blurred vision, I see the door open. My heat-fogged brain registers the massive silhouette blocking the entrance, the golden eyes luminous in the half-light of dawn. Kairyx. My blood recognizes him before my conscious mind does, a rush of fresh wetness soaking the sheets beneath me in shameful welcome.
His nostrils flare as he draws the concentrated omega pheromones deep into his lungs. The effect on him is immediate and visible—his pupils contract to vertical slits, his breathing deepens, and the scales along his exposed skin seem to shift with intensified color.
"Right on schedule," he rumbles, his voice deeper than I've heard it before, roughened by what I recognize with horror as the onset of rut—the alpha response to omega heat pheromones.
My body reacts to his voice alone, another wave of need crashing through me with enough force to arch my back off the bed. The whimper that escapes me is entirely outside my control, omega biology responding to alpha presence with hardwired submission.
"Don't," I manage, though whether I'm pleading with him or my own body is unclear even to me. "Please don't."
He approaches with controlled hunger, every movement deliberate, predatory. I should be scrambling away, putting distance between us, but instead I find myself frozen, caught between terror and desperate biological need.
"Your heat scent is...exceptional," he says, voice dropping lower still as he draws nearer. "Complex. Potent. Worth the decade of suppression."
As he walks, his form shifts subtly, scales spreading further across his chest in rippling patterns of obsidian black. His eyes glow brighter, the golden irises seeming to produce their own light with reptilian focus. The transformation isn't complete—he's not taking full dragon form—but he's dropping the more human aspects he's maintained until now, allowing his true nature to emerge as his control erodes.
It should terrify me more than it does. It would, if not for the heat frying my higher brain functions, reducing me to instinct and sensation. Even through my fear, my omega biology recognizes its matched alpha with unwelcome enthusiasm. Another flood of wetness betrays my body's eagerness, the scent filling the chamber with unmistakable invitation.
With a grace that seems impossible for someone his size, Kairyx sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping significantly beneath his weight. He makes no move to touch me yet, simply watches as another wave of heat wracks my frame, observing my humiliating desperation with those unnerving dragon's eyes.
"Fighting only prolongs the suffering," he says, voice almost gentle despite its inhuman rumble. "Surrender to what your body needs, and the pain transforms to pleasure."
"I would rather die," I hiss through clenched teeth, clinging to defiance even as my treacherous body arches toward him of its own accord.
His smile is slow, predatory, revealing teeth too sharp to be human. "That's not one of your options, little omega."
His clothing falls away with deliberate movements, revealing more of the scaled torso I glimpsed earlier. The obsidian scales cover his shoulders and spine completely, spreading across parts of his chest and arms in mesmerizing patterns that catch the growing dawn light. His skin radiates a furnace-like warmth that I can feel even without direct contact, the natural elevated temperature of dragon physiology calling to my fever-wracked body like a promise of relief.
But it's what happens next that shatters my remaining mental defenses.
His arousal emerges from a scaled sheath between his legs—not one cock but two, twin shafts emerging side by side, both ridged along their considerable length and radiating intense heat. Both fully erect and intimidatingly large, demanding satisfaction in a way that cuts through even my heat-haze with a jolt of genuine terror.
"This is impossible," I gasp, fear momentarily overriding need as I scramble back against the headboard, putting precious inches between us. "Humans aren't built for... that."
The movement only serves to spread my scent more effectively throughout the chamber, sending another visible ripple through his scales as he inhales deeply. His smile is predatory, confident, utterly certain of the outcome.
"Your body will adapt," he promises darkly, scales shifting across his shoulders as his control slips further. "Omegas always do. You're designed for this—to accommodate alpha claiming regardless of form or size."
My rational mind knows he's technically correct—omega physiology includes biological adaptability specifically evolved for cross-species mating. But academic knowledge does nothing to alleviate the very real fear of taking something so clearly inhuman inside my body.
The scent of my fear mingles with the heavy musk of my arousal, creating a pheromone combination that seems to trigger something primal in Kairyx. He inhales again, deeply, deliberately, and when he exhales, small flames flicker between his teeth—literal fire escaping his mouth as his draconic nature responds to the potent chemical signals.
The sight should send me into fresh panic. Instead, some deeply buried part of my omega hindbrain recognizes the display as a sign of alpha arousal, responding with another rush of wetness that soaks the already ruined sheets beneath me. My body's message is unmistakable, regardless of my mind's rejection: I am ready for claiming, for breeding, for whatever this alpha demands of me.
"Please," I whisper, the word torn from somewhere beyond conscious thought. I'm not even sure what I'm begging for anymore—for him to stop, to leave me to my misery? Or for him to end this torment, to fulfill what my body is screaming for with increasing desperation?
"Look at me," he commands, voice resonating with alpha authority that bypasses rational thought, connecting directly to the primal omega responses I've suppressed for so long.
I obey before conscious choice can intervene, my gaze locking with his golden one. What I see there sends a shudder through me—hunger, yes, the predatory focus of alpha on omega—but also something else, something almost like... appreciation? Recognition?
"I will claim you," he states, the words neither question nor request but simple fact. "I will breed you. Your body knows this is inevitable." One massive hand reaches toward me, talons stopping just short of touching my flushed skin. "But I would prefer your cooperation to your terror."
The words make no sense through the heat-haze. Why would a Prime alpha care about my cooperation? Why would my terror matter to a creature evolutionarily designed to conquer and claim?
I don't have time to puzzle through this contradiction before another wave of heat crashes over me, the most intense yet. It tears a sob from my throat, my back arching off the bed as my empty channel clenches painfully around nothing, demanding fullness with biological imperative that overrides all reason.
"Please," I say again, the word hardly recognizable through the whimper that accompanies it. "Make it stop."
Something shifts in his golden gaze—satisfaction, perhaps, at having reduced me to begging so quickly. But he doesn't gloat as I expect. Instead, he moves with that impossible speed, suddenly looming over me, his massive form caging mine against the mattress without quite touching.
"It stops when you're claimed," he rumbles, his face inches from mine, his heated breath washing over my sensitive skin. "When you're knotted and filled with alpha seed. When your body receives what it evolved to need."
The crude words should disgust me. Instead, they send another flood of wetness between my thighs, my hips bucking upward of their own accord, seeking contact I still mentally reject.
"Your resistance ends now, little omega," he growls, scales darkening as his control slips further. "Your decade of denial is over."
The last coherent thought I have, before his mouth claims mine and rational thought becomes impossible, is a bitter recognition: he's right. My resistance, my careful construction of identity, my decade-long chemical suppression—all shattered in the face of biological imperative I can no longer fight.
The breaking point has arrived.