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Fritz doesn't answer with words. His attack is pure violence—inhumanly fast movements that put him inside the dragon's guard before it can fully stand. Claws fully extended, he tears through scaled armor at the vulnerable spot where neck meets shoulder, drawing first blood with merciless precision.

The dragon roars, fire blooming in its throat as it prepares to unleash burning death.

Fritz anticipates the attack, twisting his body in an impossible contortion that takes him beneath the gout of flame.

His tail wraps around the dragon's ankle, unbalancing it as his claws find the tender flesh beneath its jaw.

Two more dragons appear at the ravine edge, drawn by their comrade's roar of pain. They leap down in coordinated attack, forcing Fritz to abandon his first target to face multiple threats.

What follows defies human understanding—a blur of motion, blood, and primal sounds that trigger flight instinct in the deepest parts of my brain. Fritz moves with impossible speed between three opponents, using their size and strength against them in ways no combat training could teach.

When the first dragon falls, throat torn out by elongated fangs, the smell of blood fills the air—hot, metallic, and strangely purple-black where Fritz's own injuries seep through fur.

The second dragon's spine snaps with an audible crack as Fritz uses his flexibility to maneuver behind it, delivering the killing blow with terrifying efficiency.

The third—the one that found me—tries to escape, wings spreading as it prepares for aerial flight.

Fritz's leap carries him an impossible distance up the ravine wall, catching the dragon mid-flight with claws that tear through wing membranes with practiced precision.

They crash back to earth together, the impact sending shudders through the ground beneath my feet.

Their final struggle is brief but vicious. Fritz pins the larger creature with impossible strength, ignoring burns along his flank where dragon fire caught him. When his jaws close around the dragon's throat, the killing bite comes with cold efficiency that speaks to decades of combat experience.

Then silence, broken only by Fritz's labored breathing and the distant sounds of battle from the fortress beyond.

He rises slowly from the dragon's corpse, blood soaking his fur in patterns that will feature in my nightmares. His eyes remain contracted to vertical slits, his posture still more beast than commander as he turns toward me.

This is the monster I once feared—the predator I believed would devour me when first claimed. The savage reality beneath civilization's thin veneer.

But I see beyond the blood and fangs now. See the precision in his violence, the control maintained even in killing rage. He fought not for territory or dominance, but for protection—for me, for our unborn child, for the humans he could have abandoned to dragon slaughter.

When he approaches, still half-wild from battle, I don't back away. Instead, I move toward him willingly, closing the distance with deliberate steps. His nostrils flare, taking in my scent—checking for injury, for fear, for the continued safety of what grows inside me.

Instinct drives my response. I tilt my head, exposing my throat and the claiming mark that declares his ownership. The gesture acknowledges the predator while trusting the protector beneath the savagery.

A rumbling growl comes from his chest—not a threat but recognition. His blood-covered hand rises with surprising gentleness to touch my face, claws carefully pulled back despite battle rage still visible in his posture.

"You're hurt," he says, voice barely recognizable through the growl that underlies each word.

"Just scrapes," I indicate the cuts along my side from my fall. "The children?—"

"Safe. The cave entrance is secured." His eyes scan the ravine, still looking for threats even as he checks my condition. "You risked yourself. For them."

The simple observation carries complex meaning. In his world, omegas are protected assets, not protectors themselves. Yet he doesn't sound angry—if anything, there's something like respect beneath the growling rumble of his voice.

"I couldn't let them die." The answer seems too simple for the choice I made, but it's the only truth I have.

His hand drops to my stomach, the gesture possessive yet questioning. Asking if our child remains safe without forming the words.

"We're both fine," I assure him, my own hand covering his in a rare moment of chosen contact. "Your timing was... perfect."

"Not perfect. I tracked your scent." The admission carries weight beyond the simple words. He followed me specifically, prioritized my safety amid fortress-wide attack.

Blood still drips from his fangs, his fur matted with evidence of the lives he's taken. I should be terrified of this predator—this killer—who stands before me in all his monstrous glory.

Instead, I find myself reaching toward him, hand steady as I touch the fur along his jaw, feeling the thundering pulse that shows both predatory fury and protective focus.

"We need to move," he says, visibly working to bring his battle form under control. The extended fangs retract slightly, his posture becoming marginally more human. "The main force is being pushed back. These scouts were just the beginning."

I nod, battlefield practicality taking over. Survival first, processing later.

As we move toward the cave entrance, Fritz's larger form positioned protectively between me and potential threats, I realize how completely my perception has changed. The monster I once feared now represents safety. The predator I once hated now protects what I value most.

The claiming mark at my throat throbs with sudden, insistent heat—an omega response to alpha protection that courses through me like wildfire.

My body recognizes what my mind is still processing—he fought for me, for our child, with a savagery that should terrify but instead ignites something primal in my core.

When we reach the cave entrance, Fritz pauses, nostrils flaring as he processes the complex mixture of scents inside. "Stay with your people," he orders, commander's authority reasserting itself as battle fury recedes. "I'm needed at the northern perimeter."

"Be careful," I say, the words coming out without thinking. Simple, human concern for his safety that would have been unthinkable months ago.

Something shifts in his golden eyes—surprise, maybe, at the genuine emotion behind my words. Before rational thought can stop it, my omega instincts surge to the surface, overwhelming months of careful distance. I reach for him, hands clutching the blood-matted fur at his chest.

"Fritz," I whisper, using his name instead of title—a deliberate choice that acknowledges the alpha beneath the commander.

A growl builds in his chest, vibrating against my palms. His pupils contract to vertical slits, battle-rage still simmering beneath fragile control. For one breathless moment, I think he'll push me away, maintain the battlefield focus needed for survival.

Instead, he pulls me against him with devastating suddenness, one clawed hand tangling in my hair while the other wraps possessively around my waist. His mouth claims mine with hunger that borders on violence—fangs still partially extended, the taste of dragon blood metallic on his tongue as it demands entrance.

I yield without hesitation, omega instinct surrendering to alpha dominance in ways my rational mind would have fought weeks ago.

The scent of battle clings to him—blood and fire and primal fury—yet beneath it pulses the distinctive markers that my body recognizes as mate, protector, father of the life growing inside me.

The kiss deepens, going beyond mere physical connection to something raw and honest—acknowledgment of what we've become to each other beyond claiming necessity or strategic alliance.

His claws prick gently against my scalp, careful even in passion, while his tongue claims mine with possessive thoroughness.

When we finally separate, his eyes have cleared somewhat—the feral rage receding enough for the commander to resurface. His thumb traces the line of my jaw with surprising gentleness, claws fully retracted despite the battle still visible in the tension of his muscles.

"Protect what's ours," he says, the possessive plural acknowledging what grows inside me as shared legacy rather than mere biological outcome.

Then he's gone, moving with that impossible feline speed back toward the battle that still rages around the fortress walls. I watch until his form disappears among the rocks, my fingers rising to touch lips still burning from his claim, the taste of him lingering as my pulse gradually steadies.

Behind me, the settlement humans huddle in fearful groups, their whispered conversations falling silent as I turn toward them. They saw Fritz in his battle form. Witnessed the savagery he's capable of. Their eyes reflect the horror my own once held when first confronting his monstrous nature.

But they also saw him fight to protect what could have been abandoned. Saw him prioritize human lives when strategic calculation might have suggested otherwise.

"The northern access remains secure," I tell them, voice steady despite the battle still raging beyond our shelter. "Commander Clawe has eliminated the immediate threat."

Commander Clawe. Not the monster, not the feline, not my reluctant captor. The name carries weight now—connection rather than division. Respect rather than fear.

The claiming mark at my throat pulses with my heartbeat as I move among the humans, organizing supplies and checking injuries. Each throb a reminder of the predator whose blood-soaked fur and elongated fangs no longer trigger revulsion but recognition.

I've seen the monster beneath the commander now. Witnessed the savagery beneath the strategy.

And found myself moving toward it rather than away—accepting the predator while trusting the protector those fangs and claws can serve.