Page 12 of Naga’s Mate (Prime Omegaverse #2)

CHAPTER 11

THE VISITOR

Three months into captivity, and my body has become an unfamiliar landscape. The gentle curve of my abdomen testifies to my new reality—carrying a hybrid child that defies everything I once believed about human biology. Each morning, I document the changes with scientific precision: heightened sensory perception, metabolic shifts, and most fascinating, the faint iridescent patterns appearing beneath my skin where new life develops.

Science has always been my sanctuary. Even now, I cling to empirical observation like a lifeline in emotional waters too deep to fathom.

The security alert's unexpected chime stops my hands over the laboratory equipment. The specialized embryonic scanner hums as I turn toward the entrance, pulse immediately quickening against my will.

"We have a visitor," Nezzar announces, his massive form occupying the doorway. His serpentine lower body shifts in patterns I've learned indicate unease, though his voice remains measured. "A human researcher has been granted temporary access. His expertise in hybrid plant compounds is required for a Council-sanctioned project."

I set down the molecular analyzer with deliberate care, fighting to keep my expression neutral. "Another human? Here?"

"Your former research supervisor," Nezzar replies, golden eyes watching my reaction with unnerving intensity. "Dr. Malcolm Reed."

The name strikes me like physical impact. Malcolm Reed—my mentor before the Conquest, who helped secure my position at the research facility, who I always believed quietly supported humans struggling to maintain dignity under naga rule.

"Why?" I manage, thoughts racing through possibilities.

"The Council of Nine has approved a joint initiative on dimensional hybrid flora. His qualifications are... unique." Nezzar's forked tongue samples the air between us, tasting the emotional cascade I can't hide. "You will assist during his consultation."

Not a request. Despite our gradually evolving dynamic since the pregnancy revelation, Nezzar's authority remains absolute beyond our private chambers.

"When?" I ask, working to sound merely curious rather than desperately hopeful.

"Now." His scales shimmer slightly under the laboratory lights. "Dress appropriately. You represent my territory."

The clothing provided isn't my usual practical laboratory attire, but something more formal—fabric that highlights rather than conceals my changing body. The message couldn't be clearer: I am to be displayed as a claimed omega carrying the territory guardian's offspring. Living proof of Nezzar's status and virility.

The central meeting chamber feels vast after months confined to our quarters and laboratory. Specialized illumination showcases impressive botanical specimens lining the walls—a calculated demonstration of Nezzar's scientific achievements and territorial resources. Every detail broadcasts dominance.

When Malcolm enters, flanked by two naga guards whose specialized scale patterns indicate military enhancement, I barely recognize him. The thoughtful researcher who once guided my studies has been replaced by someone haggard and diminished, his once precise movements now hesitant. His eyes, though—they still carry that penetrating intelligence, cataloging everything with methodical care.

"Dr. Wilson," he acknowledges formally, though I catch his momentary shock when he notices my condition. "You're looking... well."

"Dr. Reed," I respond, acutely aware of Nezzar's restless movement behind me. "Welcome to the research complex."

The formalities that follow feel endless—project specifications exchanged, research parameters established, resource allocations negotiated. Throughout it all, I feel Nezzar's attention on me like a physical touch, his predatory senses monitoring my every reaction to this unexpected connection with my former life.

When a security alert sounds, Nezzar's attention shifts. "A boundary breach," he explains, the scales along his shoulders rippling. "Minor, but requiring my direct attention. Continue the preliminary discussion. I'll return shortly."

The moment the chamber door seals, Reed's demeanor transforms. He approaches with urgent purpose, eyes darting between monitoring devices as he lowers his voice to barely audible levels.

"We've been searching for you for months," he whispers, words tumbling out. "After you missed your third supply drop, we knew something had happened. We've been monitoring, waiting for an opportunity?—"

"Malcolm," I interrupt, finding my voice through shock. "What are you saying?"

His gaze drops meaningfully to my abdomen before meeting mine again. "We can extract you," he whispers, constantly glancing toward the door. "We've developed compounds that might counteract the venom dependency. It won't be easy, but it's possible."

Hope flashes through me like summer lightning—escape from captivity, from the complex emotional tangle I've developed with my captor, from the biochemical bonds that chain me more effectively than any physical restraint. Three months ago, I would have seized this chance without question.

But now...

"How?" I ask, voice so soft even my enhanced hearing barely catches it.

"Three weeks from now. The security rotation has a vulnerability during shift change. We have specialized transport waiting." His fingers hover near mine, stopping just short of contact. "The compounds will be painful—withdrawal always is—but they'll purge your system of naga influence. We can remove all trace of contamination," his gaze drops deliberately to my abdomen, "and return you to who you were before."

The clinical euphemism strikes me with unexpected force. Remove all trace of contamination. The sterile words for terminating the pregnancy cut through my scientific detachment with unexpected sharpness.

My hands move instinctively to protect my abdomen—a gesture I didn't consciously initiate. The hybrid child growing inside me represents captivity, yes—but also something scientifically extraordinary. The embryo displays developmental patterns that could revolutionize our understanding of interspecies compatibility, adaptations neither humans nor nagas exhibit independently.

But it's not just academic fascination making me hesitate. Something primal and fierce rises at the thought of anyone threatening this life joined with mine. A protective instinct I never anticipated feeling for a child conceived through captivity.

"Malcolm," I begin, uncertain what I'm even going to say, when the door glides open.

Nezzar fills the entrance, his powerful form suddenly seeming more imposing than before. Though his expression remains controlled, the way his scales shimmer with barely-contained tension tells me everything—his heightened senses have detected something wrong. The subtle change in his posture and the tightening of his powerful coils against the floor signals suspicion more clearly than words could.

"The security matter is resolved," he announces, golden eyes shifting between Reed and me with calculated assessment. "We should continue with the project parameters."

Reed withdraws, professional mask returning with practiced ease. "Of course. I was just discussing some historical research context with Dr. Wilson."

The remainder of the consultation unfolds in excruciating tension. I force myself to concentrate on technical details, contributing appropriately while carefully avoiding meaningful eye contact with Reed. Throughout the meeting, Nezzar's awareness of me feels almost tangible—his coils occasionally brushing against me in what appears casual but communicates unmistakable possession.

When Reed finally departs, escorted by the same guards who brought him, the silence between Nezzar and me stretches taut as wire. I busy myself organizing research notes, feigning absorption that might delay the inevitable confrontation.

It doesn't work.

"He is resistance," Nezzar states rather than asks, his powerful lower body sliding across the chamber floor to create a loose perimeter around me. Not restraining yet, but establishing boundaries. "And he offered you extraction."

I consider lying, but what's the point? His chemosensory abilities would detect deception instantly. My silence confirms his suspicion as effectively as any words.

His hand reaches out, resting possessively over the slight curve of my abdomen. The gentle pressure contrasts with the intensity in his vertical-pupiled gaze. "Did you accept?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with implications beyond its simplicity. Three months ago, my answer would have been immediate. Now, I find myself caught in emotional crosscurrents I never saw approaching.

"I didn't give him an answer," I reply truthfully, watching his pupils contract to narrow slits.

His coils shift slightly closer, not painfully but with unmistakable intent. "Would you leave?" he asks, and something in his voice carries an emotion I can't quite identify. "Knowing what would happen to our offspring?"

The directness strips away my ability to evade. "He said they have compounds that counteract venom dependency."

"And the child?" His scaled hand presses more firmly against my abdomen. "What did he propose for our developing hybrid?"

I swallow hard, finding the euphemism suddenly impossible to repeat. "He referred to it as 'contamination' to be purged," I admit, the words acrid on my tongue.

Something flickers in Nezzar's expression—a flash of what might almost be hurt before cold anger replaces it. "Typical resistance philosophy. Hybrids represent successful integration, a future they cannot accept."

His coils shift closer, not aggressive but protective, forming barriers between me and the exterior walls as if Reed might reappear at any moment. "You didn't answer my question," he presses. "Would you choose that path? Destruction of what we've created together, just to return to what you were?"

The question lands with physical weight. Would I? Three months ago, without hesitation. Now...now I'm uncertain. The scientist in me recoils at destroying a unique biological specimen. The woman in me flinches at terminating a pregnancy I've begun monitoring with almost maternal interest. And some other part—some part I refuse to name—balks at the thought of never seeing Nezzar again.

Stockholm syndrome in perfect form? Or something more complex?

"I don't know," I whisper, the most honest answer possible.

To my surprise, Nezzar doesn't punish this ambivalence. Instead, his coils relax slightly, though they remain protectively positioned. "You require time," he says, voice unexpectedly gentle. "Time and security."

Throughout the evening, I watch as security around our quarters, the laboratory, and me intensifies. Additional guards appear at access points. New biometric scanners materialize at doorways. Monitoring systems activate in corridors I hadn't known existed.

That night, Nezzar's claiming carries something beyond usual dominance—a desperation previously absent. His powerful body envelops mine with possessive urgency, his unique anatomy filling me with an intensity bordering on frantic. When his fangs renew our claiming mark, I taste something unfamiliar in his venom—not just pleasure and chemical dependency, but an emotional element I cannot name.

Later, lying awake within his protective embrace, I contemplate the impossible choice before me. Three weeks, Reed had said. Three weeks until a potential extraction window. Three weeks to decide between gambling on freedom at the cost of the life within me, or remaining in captivity with a captor who has somehow become something more than jailer.

I rest my hands on my abdomen, feeling the slight curve sheltering a being neither fully human nor naga, a hybrid representing both violation and scientific wonder. The faint patterns beneath my skin pulse gently in darkness, reminding me how profoundly I've been changed.

The most terrifying realization isn't that Nezzar might prevent my escape. It's that I'm no longer certain I want to leave.