Page 5

What would an omega see, looking at me? A monstrous seven-foot predator, scarred and battle-worn. A failed commander exiled to a forgotten outpost. A creature whose very anatomy would terrify someone who has likely only seen felines from a fearful distance.

For a fleeting moment, my alpha instincts stir at the thought of a newly presented omega—that primal need to claim, to possess, to breed.

A tightening in my gut that I haven't allowed myself to acknowledge in years.

Immediately, I crush the sensation with practiced discipline.

Duty and distaste snuff out the unwelcome flicker before it can take hold.

The thought settles something in me. I have no interest in claiming any omega, but especially not one who would look at me with revulsion and terror.

Not one who dreams of dragon claiming while recoiling from feline touch.

My pride, what remains of it after years of political maneuvering and eventual exile, refuses to accept such an arrangement.

Better for everyone that she be processed according to protocol and transferred to a facility where at least the illusion of choice might exist. Better than being claimed by a washed-up commander no omega would willingly choose.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.

"Enter," I call, not turning from the window.

"Sir," comes the crisp voice of a junior officer. "The omega has arrived at processing. Medical examination complete. Do you wish to personally review before chamber assignment?"

I consider declining. What difference would it make? The decision is already made—facility transfer after her heat completes. Looking at her would only complicate matters unnecessarily.

And yet, something about Thorne's assessment nags at me. Taller than average. More muscular. Unusual for an omega. For all his political maneuvering, Thorne's tactical observations are rarely wrong.

"I'll be down shortly," I find myself saying.

The polished corridor outside my quarters amplifies sound in ways the stone architecture was specifically designed to achieve.

Feline hearing, already significantly more acute than human, can detect conversations three levels below through the cleverly constructed air shafts that double as acoustic channels.

As I walk, I catch fragments of conversation from the processing level.

"...fighting the calming agents..."

"...keeps asking about dragon territory..."

"...later presentation than normal..."

My stride lengthens. An omega resistant to standard calming protocols presents potential security concerns, particularly one fixated on reaching dragon territory.

The last thing we need is an escape attempt triggering territorial response from our fire-breathing neighbors, especially with boundary lines still settling.

The processing chamber comes into view—a clinically designed space with the sterile scent of medical supplies masking the more interesting pheromones that would otherwise dominate. Three junior officers stand at attention as I enter, their ears flicking forward in response to my arrival.

And there she is. The omega.

She stands with uncharacteristic rigidity for someone in pre-heat, her spine straight despite the restraints at her wrists.

Taller than I expected—perhaps 5'8", unusually height for a human female, though still well below my own towering frame.

Blonde hair falls in a practical braid rather than the elaborate styles many settlement women favor.

Her build suggests regular physical activity—lean muscle along her arms, calluses on her palms visible even from here.

Most striking are her eyes—green with unusual intensity, and currently fixed on me with something beyond the typical fear I'm accustomed to seeing. There's calculation there. Assessment. And beneath it, unmistakable revulsion as she takes in my inhuman features.

Her nostrils flare slightly as she catches my scent, her body's involuntary response to alpha pheromones betraying her despite obvious mental resistance.

The subtle flush across her cheekbones deepens, and I detect the first hints of responsive omega scent breaking through the herbal masking agents she's clearly used.

"Commander Clawe," she says, her voice steadier than expected. "I've heard of you."

Not the cowering response typical of newly captured omegas. Interesting. The girl has spine, I'll grant her that.

"Your name," I demand, deliberately keeping my voice in the deeper register that vibrates through my chest—a sound designed to remind omegas of their biological place.

She swallows hard, fighting her body's instinct to submit to the vocal cue. Her throat works visibly with the effort. "Aria Copenhagen."

"You attempted to mask your presentation with herbal suppressants," I observe, circling her slowly. Her scent gives her away—the chemical compounds of eastern frostleaf and midnight nettle lingering beneath her natural omega sweetness. "Knowledge of resistance techniques is a punishable offense."

"They're common medicinal herbs," she counters, turning her head to maintain visual contact as I move behind her. Another unusual response—most would keep their eyes downcast, not track a predator's movements so overtly. "Used for headache relief."

"And conveniently effective at temporarily masking omega pheromones," I add, completing my circuit to face her again. "An interesting coincidence."

"Perhaps your settlements should monitor their herb gardens more carefully if common medicinals represent security threats." Her chin lifts fractionally—a gesture of defiance that makes my tail lash once in surprise.

This close, I can see the rapid pulse at her throat, the dilated pupils that betray her fear despite her verbal bravado.

Her scent grows richer as pre-heat symptoms intensify under stress, her body preparing itself despite her mind's obvious rejection.

Something about that contradictory response—the defiance in her eyes while her body beckons—triggers an unexpected ripple of interest that I immediately suppress.

"You've been informed of the territorial reassignment?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Yes." A single syllable, loaded with resentment.

"And you were planning to reach dragon territory before your heat manifested fully." Not a question.

Her silence is confirmation enough.

"A foolish plan," I tell her bluntly. "Dragon patrols would have caught you within hours, and their treatment of captured omegas is not the romantic claiming you've clearly fantasized about."

Something flickers across her face—uncertainty breaking through defiance. "You wouldn't know what they?—"

"I've spent twenty years in territorial conflicts with dragons," I interrupt, turning to reveal the burn scars visible along my flank where my uniform doesn't fully cover.

"I know exactly what they do to claimed omegas.

Their dual anatomy causes internal damage most humans don't survive intact, and those who do are permanently altered by fire-seed that burns human tissue from inside. "

She flinches visibly, though whether from this information or my monstrous appearance, I can't tell.

For a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of the same doubt I'd seen in her eyes when I mentioned dragon cruelty—as though someone else had already warned her of this reality, but she hadn't fully believed it until now.

"You will be assigned to heat-containment chamber three," I continue, gesturing for the junior officers to prepare for transport. "After your cycle completes, you'll be processed for facility transfer."

"Facility?" Her composure cracks slightly. "You mean breeding center."

"That is the protocol for unclaimed omegas," I confirm without emotion. "Unless an alpha of appropriate rank chooses to claim you directly."

Her eyes widen fractionally, darting over my inhuman features with poorly concealed horror at the implication.

The disgust in her expression shouldn't bother me—I've seen similar reactions from countless humans over the years—yet something about her obvious revulsion strikes deeper than expected.

A primal rage, possessive and absolute, claws momentarily at my control.

Not because I want her, but because her rejection stings in places I thought long calloused over.

"I have no interest in claiming unwilling omegas," I inform her coldly. "Particularly those with dragon fixations. The facility will process you appropriately."

Relief washes visibly through her, quickly followed by new calculation. She's reassessing her situation, looking for advantages or escape opportunities. Unusual clarity of thought for an omega in pre-heat.

"Commander," she begins, her tone shifting to something less confrontational. "I have valuable knowledge of trading routes through the contested territories. Information that could be useful to the Confederacy before I'm...processed."

An attempt at bargaining. Predictable, if better articulated than most. For a moment, I consider her offer. She clearly knows the terrain well, possibly better than our maps indicate. In another situation, such knowledge might indeed be valuable.

"All relevant information will be extracted during standard questioning," I reply dismissively. "Lieutenant Thorne will oversee your chamber assignment."

I turn to leave, forcing myself not to react to the spike of fear-scent that emanates from her as the reality of her situation finally penetrates.

Three days of heat in isolation, followed by facility transfer.

The biological imperatives she's likely never experienced before will break through her unusual composure soon enough.

"Commander." Thorne appears at my side as I exit the processing chamber. "Your assessment?"

My tail sways slowly behind me, considering. "Standard protocol. Heat containment, then facility transfer."

"Not considering claiming? She presents unusual characteristics for breeding potential. Her height and build suggest offspring with enhanced physical capabilities."

My ears flatten against my skull. "I don't require breeding recommendations, Lieutenant."

"Of course, sir." Thorne's tone remains neutral, but his scent carries notes of disappointment and calculation. "Though I feel obligated to mention that Command has specifically inquired about your claiming intentions in the latest communication."

Of course they have. Always pushing, always reminding me that my position here exists at their pleasure.

"My claiming intentions remain none of Command's concern," I growl. "Process the omega according to protocol."

I stalk toward the upper levels, irritation rippling along my spine in visible waves of bristling fur.

Behind me, I hear Thorne issuing instructions for the omega's containment.

Her scent—that intriguing blend of defiance and fear, herbal masking agents and emerging heat—lingers in my nostrils longer than it should.

Back in my quarters, I stand before the polished metal once more. The reflection shows what I am—what humans see when they look at me. A monstrous predator with inhuman eyes, a body designed for killing, scars that speak to violence and pain.

No omega would willingly choose this. Certainly not one who dreams of dragon alphas with their jewel-bright scales and imperial bearing.

The fortress walls wouldn't hold back dragon scouts if her scent reached its peak. Her distress was a beacon. But it was more than that. Her continued, delirious fixation on the fire-breathers grated against my senses, a phantom challenge to my very real claim over this territory.

I push the thoughts away. Better for everyone that she be processed according to protocol. Better that I remember what I am—a washed-up commander serving out a glorified exile, not a worthy alpha seeking a mate.

My tail settles into stillness as the decision solidifies. I will not claim Aria Copenhagen. After her heat passes, she'll be transferred to a facility where her unusual physical characteristics can be properly utilized for the Confederacy's breeding programs.

The matter is settled. Or so I tell myself as her scent continues to haunt me, hours after our brief encounter.