Page 46

DEEPER CONNECTION

Fritz POV

Pain gnaws at my flank, a hot, throbbing reminder of dragon fire that refuses to heal. Five days since the attack. Five days since I nearly lost everything. Five days of showing a weakness I've spent decades burying beneath cold command.

I lower myself into my chair, swallowing a growl as my muscles protest. The scent of blood—my own—still seeps from bandages hidden beneath my clothing. A commander can't show weakness. Especially not now, with reports of dragon scouts testing our borders again.

I catch her scent before the door opens—sweet omega mixed with the newer, richer notes of pregnancy. My child growing inside her. The thought still hits me like a physical blow each time it surfaces, a mixture of fierce protectiveness and disbelief that this has become my reality.

Aria steps into my quarters, her eyes immediately narrowing as she takes me in.

"You're pushing too hard," she says, no deference in her tone. Not commander and claimed omega anymore, but something else entirely. "I can smell the fresh blood."

Fuck. Of course she can. Even with her limited human senses, she's learned to detect the subtle changes in my scent, the markers of pain I try to hide. The realization that she's studied me so closely creates an unexpected warmth in my chest.

"Fortress needs leadership," I mutter, reaching for a report and failing to hide the wince as my side burns in protest.

She moves closer, no fear in her approach. The omega who once trembled at my presence now stares me down, unflinching. "The fortress needs a commander who isn't about to collapse from reopened wounds."

Her challenge should anger me. Instead, my chest tightens with something dangerously close to admiration. I watch as she scans the reports spread across my desk, her mind working through tactical implications with speed that matches my own.

"They're establishing a containment perimeter," she says, finger tracing the pattern of dragon sightings on the map. "Testing our recovery while preparing for another strike."

My tail flicks in approval before I can control it. "My assessment as well."

"Then delegate the physical response," she counters, the stubborn set of her jaw making my blood heat in ways that have nothing to do with battlefield strategy. "Your mind is what we need, not your body breaking itself open again."

I can't stop the growl that rises in my throat. "Dragons don't retreat because of clever plans. They understand blood and fire."

Instead of flinching from my display, she steps closer. Close enough that her scent engulfs me—omega, pregnant, mine. Her hand hovers just above the desk, inches from where my claws have unconsciously extended.

"And you think you'll give them more of your blood?" The softness in her voice strikes deeper than any challenge. "We've all bled enough."

Something in my chest cracks open. When did this human—this omega I claimed by necessity—start to matter beyond tactical advantage?

When did her concern begin to pierce the armor I've worn since my first command?

Her words carry a weight no battle-hardened warrior could dismiss, wrapped in a care I've never allowed myself to need.

The laugh that escapes me is rough, rusty with disuse. "Using my pride against my pride. Clever strategy."

Her smile hits me like a physical blow, the genuine pleasure in her expression making my breath catch. My tail, the traitor, curls toward her of its own accord, seeking a connection my conscious mind still hesitates to acknowledge.

We work through the afternoon, tactical plans flowing between us with seamless efficiency.

No longer commander dictating to subordinate, but partners building defense through shared strengths.

She sees vulnerabilities I would overlook—the medicinal gardens vital to settlement healing, the secondary evacuation routes that require specialized protection.

I provide context she couldn't know—the way dragon scouts communicate through flame patterns, why their thermal vision makes certain approaches deadlier than others.

Her insights cut through established military doctrine with a clarity that both impresses and, if I'm honest with myself, occasionally humbles me.

Where my training taught rigid responses, her fresh perspective offers alternatives I would never have considered.

Not just an omega offering suggestions, but a strategic mind complementing my own in ways I never expected to value.

As daylight fades, hunger growls in my belly, the healing process demanding more resources than my body has to give. She notices—of course she does—her gaze flicking to my midsection before meeting my eyes.

"You need to eat. Your body's burning through everything just keeping you upright."

The concern in her voice, practical yet intimate, makes me reckless. "Join me."

Her pulse jumps at my invitation—I can see it fluttering at her throat where my claiming mark stands stark against her skin. Not forced necessity this time. Choice.

"I'll have something brought," she says, the slight hitch in her voice betraying her understanding of the shift between us.

When food arrives, we sit across from each other at the small table in my quarters. The domesticity of it feels foreign, dangerous in its unfamiliarity. Yet conversation flows with surprising ease between bites of rare venison and hearty bread.

"Tell me about feline military training," she asks, eyes bright with genuine curiosity. "How does a cub become a commander?"

The question catches me off guard. Not tactical necessity but real interest in my culture, my past. When did she begin seeing the feline beneath the monster? More surprising still is my willingness to answer.

"We begin young," I tell her, watching her expression as she absorbs this. "Twelve human years for cubs showing combat aptitude."

"So young," she murmurs, dismay flickering across her face.

"Not by our measures." I find myself explaining context I've never bothered sharing with humans before. "We mature faster. Full growth by fifteen where humans need twenty."

"It changes how you'd see the Conquest," she observes, insights cutting to truths I rarely examine. "Different lifespans mean different perspectives on the same events."

Heat blooms in my chest that has nothing to do with healing or hunger. Her mind—quick, perceptive, unburdened by feline military doctrine—creates connections my training never taught me to see.

I tell her things I've never revealed to a human—the brutal trials young felines endure to prove combat readiness, the specialized training pathways that determine advancement potential, the complex territorial instincts that both help and hinder command structure.

Her questions aren't the fearful probing of prey seeking predator weakness, but genuine curiosity about a culture she's found herself embedded within. She asks about Confederacy politics, about inter-Prime relations, about how territorial instincts manifest within military hierarchy.

"The Feline Confederacy existed before the Conquest?" Surprise colors her voice. "I thought Prime cooperation began only after arriving on Earth."

"A common misconception." Satisfaction rumbles through me at correcting this particular human error. "Our species maintained complex alliances long before the dimensional breach. The Council of Nine merely formalized existing relationships."

As the meal ends, comfortable silence settles between us. Her scent has softened into contentment that mirrors my own unexpected ease. The pain in my side has receded to dull throb, overwhelmed by the simple pleasure of shared presence without demand or defense.

The change comes without warning. She rises suddenly, approaching my chair with purpose that triggers instinctive alertness. My muscles tense, battle-ready despite rational knowledge that she presents no threat.

Instead of retreating from this predatory response, she moves closer, standing directly before me. Her hand rises slowly—deliberately telegraphing intent to avoid triggering defensive reflex. When her fingers reach toward my face, I freeze, uncertain until contact.

The touch sends electricity down my spine—her fingertips tracing gently along my jawline in gesture any feline would instantly recognize.

Grooming initiation. The offering of intimate trust that transcends mere territorial sharing.

Though her technique lacks instinctive understanding—human fingers less effective than feline tongue—the symbolic significance steals my breath.

No human has ever attempted this connection with me. None has bothered learning this silent language of mutual acceptance. Yet here she stands, fingers exploring hesitantly along my jaw and behind my ears where grooming naturally begins.

"Am I doing this wrong?" Uncertainty flickers across her features as she registers my stillness. "I've seen the lieutenants do something similar after training."

The explanation—that she's been observing, learning, attempting to bridge the gap between us—tightens my chest until breathing becomes difficult. I swallow hard, voice emerging as rough growl.

"Not wrong. Just... unexpected."

Her hand pauses, hovering near my face. "Should I stop?"

"No." The word bursts out before I can moderate it, desperate in its speed. I force control back into my voice. "It's... acceptable."

More than acceptable. It's everything I'd abandoned hope of finding when circumstance forced our initial claiming. Not submission to biological imperative, but genuine attempt to reach across the divide between our species.

Her fingers resume their exploration, growing more confident as I remain receptive. The tension in my muscles melts beneath her touch, replaced by contentment I haven't known since cubhood. When the purr starts vibrating through my chest, her scent spikes with delighted surprise.

"You purr," she says, wonder in her voice.