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"Know your enemy," I reply with a shrug that feels almost casual, as if we're colleagues rather than captor and captive. "Your squads have patterns as predictable as the tides, if you know what to look for."

I find myself drawing diagrams in the water between us, explaining recognition patterns my network developed to identify compromised patrol vessels. The conversation flows with disturbing ease, our strategic minds engaging with the problem from complementary perspectives.

"The main sign is timing," I explain, tracing current patterns with my finger. "Compromised vessels stick to patrol schedules where they're being watched, but they take too long when diverted to interception coordinates. The delay creates windows for secondary vessels to swoop in."

Neros absorbs this information with calculating precision, his tentacles shifting in patterns of intense focus. "This matches anomalies I've seen in patrol reports from the western section. Especially under Commander Merin's jurisdiction."

The name triggers an immediate response—Neros' skin darkening to near-black, bioluminescent patterns flaring with unmistakable aggression. His second-in-command, the one who attempted to claim me during Neros' absence. The one whose threat made me realize how much worse my captivity could be.

"I'm not surprised," I observe, carefully neutral despite satisfaction at discovering his potential corruption. "He struck me as the type—ambitious but undisciplined."

"He will be dealt with," Neros states, his voice carrying the cold certainty of execution already decided. His tentacles settle into rigid patterns that speak of predetermined violence, of territorial violation that demands blood response.

This shared strategic analysis creates a different kind of intimacy than our physical claiming—a mental synchronicity where two predators recognize each other's hunting patterns.

Watching Neros process intelligence with calculating efficiency, I recognize a strategic mind that rivals my own in complexity if not in ethical framework.

His questions demonstrate understanding of resistance operations and maritime logistics that suggests he has studied my methods with genuine intellectual respect even while hunting me.

"How long were you tracking me specifically?" I ask, curiosity overriding caution.

"Fourteen months," he admits without hesitation. "Your methods were different from other smugglers. More sophisticated. More adaptive." A pause, then: "Your use of kraken venom as suppressant was particularly... impressive. Dangerous, but effective."

Again, that unwanted flutter of pride at professional recognition from an unlikely source. "Desperate times, desperate measures."

"Indeed." His golden eyes study me with an intensity that transcends mere physical assessment. "You're not like other omegas we've captured. Most lack the strategic mind to contribute beyond breeding."

"How nice that you appreciate me for my brain as well as my womb," I reply, unable to keep bitterness from my voice despite the strange rapport developing between us.

"It's not kindness but practicality," Neros counters, moving closer until his scent envelops me in familiar alpha pheromones. "Wasting a mind like yours solely on breeding would be poor resource management."

The holographic display shifts to show new tracking data—suspected movement patterns of rival lords' vessels intersecting with known smuggling routes.

As I lean forward to examine the projection, something shifts within me—a subtle warmth blooming at my core and radiating outward like someone just lit a very specific biological fuse.

A prickling sensitivity spreads across my skin, making the water currents suddenly feel too intense against my nerve endings.

My scent changes, subtly at first, then with gathering intensity. Neros goes completely still, his nostrils flaring as he detects the shift. His eyes lock onto mine, pupils dilating from vertical slits to consuming the golden irises almost completely.

No. Not now. It's too soon.

But my body has its own agenda, independent of my will or biological norms—like a very enthusiastic personal assistant who's decided to reorganize my schedule without consulting me.

The first unmistakable sign of approaching heat builds within me—a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with biology's ruthless imperative.

The luminescent patterns beneath my skin pulse faster, brighter, announcing to any alpha in vicinity that an omega approaches fertility with all the subtlety of a neon sign.

Neros inhales deeply, his own scent shifting in response to mine—alpha pheromones intensifying to match omega readiness like some kind of biological call-and-response system designed by someone with a very specific sense of humor.

"Your cycle accelerates," he observes, voice dropping to that register that vibrates through water and bone. "Your body synchronizes to mine."

And just like that, our strategic planning session is about to become something else entirely. Because apparently my biology has decided that political intrigue is less important than making sure I get thoroughly claimed again.

The universe really does have a sense of humor, and today it's laughing at me.