Page 8

HER SCENT

Fritz POV

I watch from the command balcony as the patrol brings in the fleeing omega. Despite the mountain dust coating her clothing and the exhaustion evident in her posture, she walks with her chin lifted, refusing the supportive arm offered by the female medical officer. Pride, even in capture. Unusual.

My tail sweeps slowly behind me, measuring my thoughts as I observe her more carefully.

Lieutenant Thorne's assessment was accurate—she stands taller than most human females, her frame suggesting lean muscle beneath travel-worn clothing.

Not the delicate, slight build typically associated with omega physiology.

Her auburn hair has partially escaped its practical braid, wild strands framing a face flushed with heat symptoms and defiance.

Even from this distance, her scent reaches me—sweet omega pheromones intensifying with pre-heat, layered with herbal masking agents, mountain pine, and the sharp tang of fear she's trying desperately to hide.

Beneath it all runs a current of something distinct, something uniquely hers that catches my attention more effectively than it should.

The scent calls to something primal in me, a flicker of alpha interest I immediately crush with practiced discipline.

"Bring her to the main audience chamber," I instruct the waiting officer beside me. "I want to understand exactly what she thought she was doing."

The officer salutes crisply before departing, leaving me alone with thoughts I'd rather not examine too closely.

This omega—Aria Copenhagen—clearly believed she could reach dragon territory before her heat manifested fully.

The question is whether her attempt stemmed from foolish romantic notions or something more calculated.

Either way, the risk she took breaking settlement boundaries during territorial reassignment could have triggered incidents with our fire-breathing neighbors that go well beyond one omega's fate.

I descend from the balcony with measured steps, using the private passage that connects directly to the audience chamber through a series of ledges and narrow corridors designed for feline agility.

The vertical route allows me to arrive before the omega and her escorts, taking my position at the raised platform that serves as command focal point.

The chamber itself represents Shadowthorn's dual purpose as military outpost and administrative center.

Stone walls curve upward to high ceilings with deliberately placed openings that create acoustic channels.

Territorial maps line the walls, interspersed with weapons displays from successful campaigns.

The space deliberately intimidates human visitors—everything from the oversized proportions to the elevated temperature maintained for feline comfort serves to emphasize who holds power here.

When the doors open, I'm seated in the command chair, deliberately positioned to appear casual while maintaining clear dominance posture—spine straight, tail draped with calculated indifference over the chair's arm, claws partially extended against the stone armrests.

The perfect picture of controlled predatory power.

The effect on the omega is immediate and visceral.

She stumbles slightly as she enters, though whether from intensifying heat symptoms or response to the deliberately overwhelming space, I can't tell.

Her escorts position her before me, stepping back to maintain respectful distance while remaining close enough to intervene if necessary.

Up close, her scent is nearly overwhelming—pre-heat pheromones have accelerated dramatically since her capture.

Her skin glistens with fever-sweat, pupils dilated with biological imperatives she's clearly fighting with every ounce of her remaining will.

Despite this, her gaze meets mine directly, a defiance that sends an unexpected ripple of interest through me.

"Aria Copenhagen," I say, keeping my voice in the deeper register that resonates through the chamber's acoustic design. "Escaped from settlement boundaries during restricted movement period. Traveled toward dragon territory while actively presenting omega biology. Explain yourself."

She swallows hard, the motion drawing my attention to the pulse pounding visibly at her throat—the vulnerable juncture where a claiming bite would go. Where my claiming bite would go, if I were foolish enough to take an unwilling omega with dragon fixation.

"I don't answer to feline authority," she says, voice steadier than her scent suggests possible. "Blackridge has maintained neutral status for years."

"Your information is outdated," I reply coolly. "The Council of Nine's reassignment of territorial boundaries was delivered to your settlement leadership three days ago. The same day you began presenting, according to our intelligence."

Her jaw tightens, confirmation enough that she was aware of the reassignment before her escape attempt. Not simple ignorance, then, but deliberate defiance.

"The timing is irrelevant," I continue. "Attempting to cross into dragon territory while in pre-heat represents extreme risk to yourself and potential territorial provocation that affects everyone in this region."

"I know exactly what I was doing," she counters, though the slight tremor in her voice betrays growing heat symptoms. "I've studied dragon territories and patrol patterns for years. I had a plan."

My tail lashes once, sharply, before I control it. "A plan based on childish fantasy rather than reality. No human omega survives dragon claiming intact."

"That's feline propaganda," she argues, though uncertainty flickers across her features. "Dragons are more civilized, more?—"

"More prone to burning humans from inside out with fire-seed that scars internal tissues beyond repair," I interrupt coldly.

"Their dual reproductive organs cause damage human physiology isn't designed to accommodate.

We recovered three omega escapees from dragon breeding pens last territorial dispute.

None could walk without assistance afterward. "

She pales visibly, though stubborn denial remains etched in her expression.

Between her thighs, the slick dampness soaking through her pants has become visibly apparent, her body's preparation for claiming proceeding regardless of our conversation.

The scent of it hits my sensitive nose like a physical force, triggering instinctive responses I ruthlessly suppress.

I notice her gaze dart momentarily to my exposed fangs, then to the fur bristling along my forearms—small tells that my control isn't as perfect as I'd like to believe.

Her scent shifts slightly, fear mingling with something else as her body responds to alpha pheromones despite her mind's obvious rejection.

"I don't believe you," she whispers, though her conviction wavers. "They wouldn't?—"

"They did. They do. Your settlement's dragon preference has fed you dangerous fantasies." My voice hardens. "Fantasies that nearly got you killed or worse."

Another wave of heat visibly sweeps through her, making her sway slightly where she stands.

Her hands clench at her sides, fighting the omega instinct to present submission posture.

The combination of biological surrender and mental resistance creates a fascinating contradiction I find myself watching with unwanted interest.

"Please," she says suddenly, desperation breaking through pride. "Send me to dragon territory. I was meant for them, not..." Her gesture encompasses me dismissively. "...this."

Something in me snaps. My control slips for the first time in years.

My pupils contract to vertical slits, fur bristling visibly along my spine as a growl builds in my chest—a sound no human throat could produce, rumbling from deep in my diaphragm with predatory resonance that fills the chamber completely.

The escorts step back instinctively, responding to the alpha dominance display even they rarely witness.

Aria flinches, genuine fear flickering across her face as the sound triggers primitive responses buried in human DNA. Her head tilts slightly, unconsciously exposing her throat in the instinctive omega submission posture she's been fighting since arrival.

The sight triggers unexpected predatory satisfaction that I immediately suppress, disgusted with myself for the lapse.

I am a commander, not an animal. Her disrespect may be infuriating, but losing control only validates her opinion of felines as uncivilized beasts.

Yet beneath my disgust runs something darker—a primal rage, possessive and absolute, clawing at my control.

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

I rise in a single fluid motion, standing to my full seven-foot height.

"You know nothing of what you were 'meant for,' omega.

" The term emerges more like epithet than designation.

"Your romantic fantasies about majestic dragons would have ended with you claimed by multiple alphas in succession, used until breeding was confirmed, then discarded to whatever function your damaged body could still perform. "

I step down from the platform, approaching her with measured steps. She holds her ground despite visible trembling, a courage I might admire under different circumstances.

"Since you seem determined to believe feline lies," I continue coldly, "perhaps you should hear what dragon alphas say themselves." I gesture to the communication officer. "Play territorial communication intercept alpha-seven-three."