Page 7 of Hunter’s Barbs (Prime Omegaverse #5)

As I wait for the herbs to take effect, I allow myself a moment to imagine what awaits in dragon territory.

I picture the alpha who might claim me—magnificent and powerful, scales gleaming like living jewels in sunlight.

Dragons stand even taller than felines, their transformations more complete when they shift forms. Their voices carry dual tones that vibrate through human bones, their presence commands respect rather than just fear.

But Nyssa's words intrude again— "they used her for target practice after they were done with her heat.

Said her screams were... musical." The image of burns, of flesh seared by something beautiful yet deadly, ripples through my fantasy.

What if I'm wrong? What if my dreams are built on childish fantasy rather than truth?

I push the doubts away. Even if there's danger, I've made my choice. Better the risk of dragon fire than the certainty of a feline breeding facility.

The herbs finally dull the edge of my symptoms, though not as effectively as before.

I rise on shaky legs, reorienting myself toward the path ahead.

Two more mountain passes separate me from dragon territory.

If I push hard, I might reach the border by nightfall, though I'll be deep in heat by then.

Better to be claimed by a dragon in full heat than processed through a feline facility.

I follow the stream upward as it narrows toward its source, using the sound of running water to mask my passage.

The forest thins as I climb, trees becoming stunted and wind-twisted the higher I go.

By early afternoon, I've reached the second pass—a wider corridor with less wind but more evidence of regular travel.

Caution makes me pause at the tree line, scanning for any sign of patrols before committing to the exposed path ahead. The herbs are wearing off faster than before, my body burning through them as heat symptoms accelerate. Another hour, maybe two, before I lose coherent thought entirely.

The pass appears empty, no movement betraying watchers or travelers. I step out from cover, moving as quickly as my increasingly uncooperative body allows. Halfway across the exposed ground, a scent hits me—musky and sharp, with unmistakable predatory notes.

Feline.

I freeze, scanning desperately for the source. There—at the far end of the pass, two lean figures materialize from behind rock formations where they must have been waiting. Scout patrols, moving with the predatory grace unique to their kind.

I back toward the tree line, heart hammering painfully in my chest. Perhaps they haven't seen me yet. Perhaps I can make it back to cover, find another route—maybe the narrow ledge path I'd noted on previous expeditions, the one that skirts the eastern face of the mountain.

The wind shifts, blowing directly from me toward them. I watch in horror as both scouts stiffen, heads lifting as they catch my scent on the breeze—omega, in pre-heat, unmistakable to their enhanced senses despite the herbal masking agents.

"No," I whisper, turning to flee back into the forest.

Too late. Their inhuman speed closes the distance in seconds, one circling to cut off my retreat while the other approaches directly.

They're both tall, reed-thin creatures with sleek black fur covering their forearms and spine, nothing like Commander Clawe's tiger-striped bulk but just as clearly not human.

"Settlement female," the taller one calls, voice carrying that distinctive rumbling undertone all felines possess. "Stop. You're outside authorized travel zones."

I back away, searching for any escape route. "I have trading authorization," I lie, knowing it's futile. My scent betrays me completely.

The second scout circles closer, nostrils flaring as he catches my full scent profile. His pupils contract to vertical slits against yellow irises, his tail going perfectly still behind him—a hunting posture I recognize from painful observation.

"Omega," he says, the word carrying unexpected weight. "In pre-heat."

Against my will, my body responds to their alpha pheromones—subtle but effective at this distance.

Another rush of slick warmth between my thighs brings humiliating awareness of my vulnerability.

My neck aches with the instinct to bare my throat in submission, a biological imperative I resist with clenched teeth.

"I'm just traveling home," I try again, voice steadier than I feel. "My settlement is?—"

"Blackridge," the first scout interrupts. "And you're heading away from it, toward dragon territory." His head tilts with predatory assessment. "The newly presented omega reported missing this morning."

They know. They're looking for me specifically. The realization sends ice through my veins despite the fire in my blood.

"I'm authorized to travel," I insist, taking another step backward.

The taller scout moves with blinding speed, suddenly behind me, cutting off my retreat.

His scent—alpha, predator, feline—triggers another wave of unwanted response from my traitorous body.

My knees weaken as slick gushes between my thighs, the omega biology responding to alpha presence despite it being the wrong species, the wrong territory, everything wrong.

"You will return with us to Shadowthorn Outpost," he says, not unkindly but with absolute authority. "Commander Clawe has ordered your retrieval."

The second scout approaches, pulling restraints from his belt. "Your heat accelerates. You need medical attention before full manifestation."

I lash out instinctively, striking at the nearest scout with desperate strength. My fist connects with solid muscle, achieving nothing but sharp pain across my knuckles. His reflexes are impossibly fast, catching my wrist before I can try again.

"Please," I beg, humiliation burning alongside the fever in my blood. "Not feline territory. I need?—"

"You need proper medical support through your first heat," the scout holding my wrist says firmly. "Dragon territory offers only breeding pens where you'd be used by multiple alphas until conception."

Horror floods through me at his words. Not the claiming I've imagined—not the destiny I've planned for years. The image of multiple dragons, multiple claimings, shifts my fantasy into nightmare. No single alpha claiming me as mate, cherishing me for my rarity? Just... breeding?

"You're lying," I whisper, even as uncertainty creeps into my conviction. "Dragons are more civilized, they?—"

"Have dual anatomy that burns human omegas from inside," the taller scout interrupts flatly. "Your settlement's dragon preference nearly cost you your life, omega."

The words echo Nyssa's warning, echo Commander Clawe's cold assessment just yesterday. The repetition from different sources cracks my certainty further. Could they all be right? Could my years of careful observation and planning have been built on fundamental misunderstanding?

The restraints close around my wrists—not painfully tight, but secure enough to prevent further resistance. I stand there, caught between scouts, as the reality of my situation finally breaks through heat-fueled fantasy.

I've failed. My escape attempt, my carefully planned route to dragon territory, my dreams of majestic claiming—all collapsed in seconds upon contact with reality.

One scout retrieves my fallen pack while the other guides me firmly back the way I came, down toward the valley where Shadowthorn Outpost awaits. Each step away from dragon territory feels like another piece of my imagined future crumbling away.

"Commander Clawe will determine your disposition," the scout leading me says, his tone carefully neutral. "You're fortunate we found you before dragon patrols. They've increased activity since the territorial reassignment."

I don't respond, focusing instead on remaining upright as heat symptoms continue to intensify.

The herbal mixture has completely failed now, overwhelmed by biological imperatives strengthened through stress and alpha proximity.

My vision occasionally blurs at the edges, my skin feels tight and oversensitive, and the emptiness inside grows more demanding with each passing minute.

We reach the tree line where a transport vehicle waits—one of the rare motorized transports the Primes maintain for official use. The scouts help me inside, one remaining with me while the other takes the controls. The engine roars to life, the sound painfully loud to my heightened senses.

As we descend toward Shadowthorn Outpost, I catch glimpses of my settlement below, growing smaller with each curve in the mountain road. Blackridge looks impossibly vulnerable from this height, its defensive walls laughably inadequate against the power that controls these mountains.

My body betrays me completely during the journey, waves of heat and need making coherent thought increasingly difficult. The scout beside me maintains respectful distance despite my scent, his training evidently stronger than biological response.

"First heat is always worst," he offers awkwardly as I curl into myself during a particularly intense wave. "The medical staff at Shadowthorn will provide suppressants to ease the symptoms."

I want to snap back that I don't want their help, don't want anything from felines, but another rush of liquid heat between my thighs steals my voice. The emptiness inside has become an ache so profound I can focus on little else, my omega biology demanding alpha completion with increasing urgency.

The transport rounds a final curve, and Shadowthorn Outpost comes into view—a fortress both carved into and built upon the mountain itself.

Stone towers rise from natural rock formations, creating an imposing structure that appears as an extension of the mountain rather than separate construction.

High walkways connect the towers, designed for creatures with perfect balance and climbing abilities rather than human limitations.

I've seen it from a distance my entire life but never this close.

The scale of it is more intimidating than I expected, the architecture clearly designed for feline physiology rather than human comfort.

Even from outside, I can see how vertical spaces are utilized as extensively as horizontal ones, with some areas accessible only through climbing rather than stairs.

My dream of dragon claiming collapses completely as the transport passes through massive gates into a central courtyard.

Feline soldiers move with predatory grace across the space, some climbing vertical surfaces with casual ease that emphasizes their inhuman nature.

Their heads turn in unison as our vehicle enters, nostrils flaring as they catch my scent even through closed windows.

Omega. In heat. Unclaimed.

The scout helps me from the transport, supporting my weight when my legs threaten to buckle. The courtyard spins around me, heat symptoms accelerating in proximity to so many alpha pheromones. Between my thighs, slick soaks through my pants in a visible stain I can no longer hide or control.

"Processing chamber four," a new voice orders, and I'm transferred to different hands—a feline female in medical uniform who helps me across the courtyard toward a side entrance.

As the door closes behind us, cutting off my last view of the mountains beyond, I realize I've traded one captivity for another. The feline territory I've spent my life avoiding has claimed me regardless of my wishes or plans.

And somewhere in this fortress waits Commander Clawe—the scarred, battle-hardened alpha whose cold golden eyes I've feared since childhood, and who now holds complete authority over my fate.