Page 39 of Hunter’s Barbs (Prime Omegaverse #5)
The admission stirs complicated emotions I can't fully identify. Not quite jealousy—the dragons never had her, after all—but something next to it. Protective possessiveness mixed with satisfaction that her fantasies proved false.
"And now?" I find myself asking.
She considers the question seriously before answering. "They're still beautiful," she acknowledges with honesty that surprises me. "But now I see the cruelty behind the majesty. The calculation in how they use omegas as resources rather than... partners."
The word choice—partners rather than mates or property—creates another surge of that strange warmth in my chest. She moves slightly closer, the careful distance we typically maintain outside of heat necessity shrinking without either of us consciously deciding it.
"I never thought I'd say this," she admits, voice barely above a whisper, "but I'm grateful it was you who claimed me, not them. Even at the beginning, when it was cold and clinical... you never treated me as expendable."
The admission creates complicated satisfaction I'm not entirely comfortable examining.
My claiming was hardly a gift, regardless of her reevaluation given what she now knows about dragon brutality.
But before I can respond, the wind shifts, bringing her scent to me more directly.
And with it, the undeniable confirmation of what I've suspected for weeks.
My nostrils flare involuntarily, my pupils contracting to vertical slits as I process the scent markers that no human nose could detect but which are unmistakable to my enhanced senses.
My hand moves before conscious thought can intervene, reaching toward her middle before stopping just short of contact.
"What is it?" she asks, noticing my sudden tension, the frozen position of my outstretched hand.
The moment of truth arrives whether I'm prepared for it or not. "Your scent has changed."
Her brow furrows. "Changed how?"
"In a way that only happens when..." The words stick in my throat. How do I tell her? What right do I have to be pleased by what she might consider the ultimate violation?
"When what, Fritz?" She uses my name, not title, the intimacy of it surprising us both.
"When an omega is carrying young." The words finally come out, raw and honest. "You're pregnant, Aria. Have been for about three weeks now."
Her eyes widen, her hand instinctively dropping to her still-flat stomach. "I'm... pregnant?"
"Yes." I brace for disgust, for rage, for renewed hatred of the feline alpha who's inflicted this final indignity upon her.
Instead, her scent blossoms with something unexpected—not horror or revulsion, but a complex mixture of shock, wonder, and something that smells remarkably like... satisfaction.
"I thought my cycle timing was off," she murmurs, looking down at her own body as though seeing it anew. "I assumed stress from the territorial conflicts had disrupted it."
"You're not... horrified?" I can't keep the question contained, my tail betraying my agitation with sharp, jerky movements.
Her eyes rise to meet mine, the moonlight reflecting in them like silver fire. "I should be, shouldn't I?" A small, puzzled laugh escapes her. "The reluctant omega, claimed against her will, now carrying the child of her captor. It's the perfect nightmare."
I remain silent, uncertain how to navigate this unexpected reaction, afraid to hope for what her scent suggests.
"But I'm not," she continues, wonder coloring her voice. "I'm not horrified or disgusted or any of the things I should logically be." Her hand remains pressed against her abdomen. "This feels... right, somehow. Like the next step in whatever strange journey we've been on since that first claiming."
The admission steals the breath from my lungs.
My restraint—maintained through weeks of detecting the changes in her body, the growing life within her—finally breaks.
My hand completes its arrested motion, coming to rest gently against her middle.
The warmth of her seeps through the thin fabric of her clothing, and beneath it, the faintest trace of a new life—my offspring—growing within her.
"I should have told you sooner," I admit, my voice dropping to that deeper register that comes out when emotion threatens my control. "I've known for weeks. But I feared your reaction."
"How long have you known?" Her hand covers mine, keeping it pressed against her stomach rather than pushing it away as I'd expected.
"Since just after your last heat. Feline senses detect the chemical changes almost immediately."
"And you said nothing." Not an accusation, merely an observation.
"I thought you'd see it as the final violation. The ultimate proof of your captivity." My claws retract fully, ensuring not even the slightest pressure against her skin as my palm spreads wider over where our child grows. "I couldn't bear to see the disgust in your eyes."
"Fritz." My name again, spoken with a gentleness I've never heard from her before. "Look at me."
I raise my eyes to hers, finding not disgust but something that makes my breath catch—acceptance. Perhaps even pleasure.
"I'm carrying your child," she says, as though testing the words. "Our child. A hybrid born of claiming that began as necessity but has become... something else entirely."
The simple acknowledgment shatters something inside me—some final barrier between commander and omega, between captor and captive. My free hand rises to cup her face, my thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone with a gentleness few would believe possible from a battle-scarred feline commander.
"Something else entirely," I agree, my voice barely recognizable even to myself.
When she leans into my touch rather than pulling away, the last thread of my control unravels. The knowledge that she carries my offspring, that her body nurtures our shared legacy, triggers instincts I've suppressed since that first claiming. Protect. Provide. Possess. Claim.
I step closer, eliminating the careful distance we've maintained for weeks.
My tail moves of its own accord, wrapping lightly around her waist in a possessive gesture I would never have dared before this moment.
When she doesn't tense or pull away, something primal and satisfied rumbles in my chest.
"Your scent," she murmurs, her pupils dilating slightly. "It's changing."
Of course it is. The knowledge that she carries my young, combined with her acceptance rather than rejection, triggers responses I can't control. My scent would be broadcasting unmistakable possessive claim, territorial dominance, and—most dangerously—arousal.
"I should go," I manage, though every muscle in my body screams against retreating. "This is... overwhelming for both of us."
"Don't." Her hand rises to my chest, pressing against the spot where my heart thunders beneath muscle and bone. "Stay."
The single word destroys the last of my resistance.
My mouth finds hers with hunger I've never allowed myself to show during our previous claimings.
This isn't the methodical breeding of heat cycles, but something deeper, more primal—the claiming of what is mine not merely by circumstance but by choice.
Her lips yield beneath mine, soft where I am hard, giving where I am demanding.
My tongue, rougher than a human's, traces the seam of her mouth before she opens to me with a sigh that vibrates through my entire body.
The taste of her—sweet with undertones unique to her chemistry—floods my senses, creating an intoxication more potent than any battle rage.
My hands span her waist, lifting her effortlessly until she's seated on the stone parapet, our heights more evenly matched in this position.
The night air surrounds us, carrying our mingled scents across the mountain peaks—a declaration to any Prime within miles that this omega is claimed, protected, carrying the next generation of her alpha's bloodline.
"Fritz," she gasps as my mouth leaves hers to trace the path of my claiming mark at her throat. My tongue rasps against the silvery scar, renewing my scent markers with deliberate intent. "What are you?—"
"Marking what's mine," I growl against her skin, the words coming without conscious thought. "The mother of my offspring. My mate. Mine."
The possessive declaration should anger her, should remind her of captivity and forced claiming. Instead, her scent spikes with unmistakable arousal, her body arching toward mine with an instinctive response that has nothing to do with heat biology and everything to do with choice.
"Yes," she breathes, her fingers tangling in my hair, finding the sensitive spot where ears meet scalp with uncanny accuracy. "Yours."
The simple acknowledgment breaks the last barrier of restraint.
My hands move from her waist to her thighs, pushing beneath the thin fabric of her sleeping shift with urgent need.
The scent of her arousal hits me like a physical blow—sweet omega slick, distinctive markers of early pregnancy, and beneath it all, the unmistakable note of desire directed specifically at me.
Not alpha in abstract, not biological imperative, but personal want.
"Here?" she asks, glancing around the exposed tower top. "Anyone could?—"
"Let them," I rumble, past caring about propriety or protocol. "Let them all know you're claimed. That you carry my offspring. That you've chosen this."
Her eyes widen at the raw possessiveness in my tone, but her scent reveals no fear—only increasing arousal and something warmer that I hesitate to name even in the privacy of my own thoughts.
"I have chosen this," she affirms, her hands moving to the fastenings of my clothing with surprising skill. "Chosen you."
The admission ignites something beyond mere desire—a consuming need to claim her again, to mark her as mine in ways that go beyond the original claiming bite. My clothing falls away under her determined fingers, exposing my body to the night air and her gaze.