Page 13 of Naga’s Mate (Prime Omegaverse #2)
CHAPTER 12
TEMPTATION OF FREEDOM
Two weeks since Reed's visit, and I've mastered the art of indecision. Each morning brings the same thought: today I might choose. Freedom or captivity. Resistance or acceptance. The familiar past or this bewildering present that's becoming harder to reject.
My abdomen now carries unmistakable evidence of the life growing within—just over three months, yet the curve is pronounced enough to necessitate adjustments to my laboratory clothing. This pregnancy advances with startling rapidity, accelerated by the naga biochemistry that's become fundamental to my existence. By human medical standards, I should barely show. According to my clandestine measurements, this hybrid develops approximately 1.7 times faster than a standard human fetus.
Nothing about my circumstances qualifies as standard. That possibility vanished when Nezzar discovered me among the experimental blooms.
"Cellular division continues at unprecedented rates," I murmur, analyzing the latest scan results. The advanced equipment in my laboratory—technology no human researcher has ever accessed—reveals developmental patterns that would transform xenobiological understanding if publication were possible.
Which it isn't, because my role has changed. Not researcher but research subject. Not scientist but captive. Not person but claimed omega.
Except it doesn't feel that straightforward anymore.
"Your hypothesis regarding the hybrid neurovascular structure proved accurate," Nezzar's voice interrupts my thoughts as he enters the laboratory, his powerful form gliding with that liquid grace that remains disconcerting despite our months together. "The adaptation manifests during embryonic development rather than post-birth as previous studies indicated."
I catch myself smiling before I can suppress it—genuine intellectual satisfaction completely divorced from my captivity and entirely connected to scientific validation. "The venom exposure triggers epigenetic modifications that express immediately in fetal development," I explain, momentarily forgetting I'm discussing my own pregnancy with my captor. "Evolutionarily speaking, it's extraordinary."
Nezzar approaches, his lower body moving across the specialized flooring in silent undulations. "You're extraordinary," he corrects, and the simple statement sends an unbidden warmth through my chest. "Your adaptation surpasses all documented cases."
This remains the most perplexing aspect of my evolving situation—his evident respect for my scientific contributions, the resources he provides that humans never access, the way he treats me as a valued collaborator in understanding the unprecedented development within my body. It contradicts everything I believed about naga captivity, about dominance hierarchies under Conquest law.
More disturbing still is my changing response to him. The quickening pulse when he enters a room. How I unconsciously lean toward his touch when his coils encircle me. The anticipation that builds as evening approaches, knowing the venom claiming will soon follow.
Stockholm syndrome, I remind myself for the thousandth time. Trauma bonding. Chemical dependency. Nothing deeper.
So why does contemplating escape create such visceral discomfort?
"Current scans reveal preliminary scale formation along the embryonic spine," I say, deliberately refocusing on clinical observation. "The pattern suggests capacity for bipedal movement rather than primarily serpentine locomotion."
His golden eyes soften as he studies the holographic display. "A perfect synthesis of our species," he observes, one scaled hand extending toward my abdomen with that careful reverence that still disconcerts me.
I permit the contact—another small capitulation in the countless surrenders defining my captivity. His palm rests against the swell, and I swear I feel the child respond, a flutter of movement too early to be actual kicking but unmistakably alive.
"Your research advances impressively," he says, shifting topics as if sensing my emotional turbulence. "The Council has approved your request for the specialized cultivation equipment."
Another accommodation to my scientific needs, another reason to question the simplicity of my captivity. Each allowance erodes my resistance, making the prospect of escape simultaneously more feasible and less appealing.
"Thank you," I respond, my gratitude both genuine and unsettling. Thanking my captor for allowing me to pursue research while bearing his claiming mark—what have I become?
Later that night, after Nezzar departs to address administrative matters, I return to the laboratory. Sleep proves elusive, pregnancy hormones and existential uncertainty making poor companions for rest. The familiar ambient hum of equipment offers comfort as I review the day's findings.
The gentle pulsing bioluminescence from a newly delivered specimen draws my attention—a night-blooming orchid variant I requested for comparative analysis. Its genetic structure might provide insight into adaptive biology relevant to hybrid development.
As I approach the containment unit, I notice something peculiar—a subtle irregularity in the bloom pattern that my enhanced vision immediately identifies. Not natural variation but deliberate modification. My fingers tremble slightly as I activate the specialized extraction tools, carefully isolating the anomalous section for closer examination.
The outer petals separate under microscopic manipulation to reveal a concealed chamber—a sophisticated botanical delivery system I recognize from resistance operations. Inside lies a tightly folded message and, more troublingly, a small capsule containing transparent liquid.
Reed. Contact established exactly as promised.
My pulse quickens as I carefully extract the message, unfolding it beneath the scanner's shielded compartment where surveillance systems can't detect its contents.
Extraction plan finalized. Transport arrives northern greenhouse boundary, section 7-B, 0200 hours next Thursday. Take capsule 30 minutes prior to arrival. Will neutralize venom bond without triggering withdrawal. One chance. Confirmation required through specimen return channel. —R
The capsule gleams beneath laboratory illumination as I examine it with enhanced perception. The liquid reveals complex molecular structures that might indeed counteract naga venom's neural effects—specifically designed to disrupt addiction pathways without triggering the catastrophic withdrawal I experienced during my earlier resistance attempt.
My scientific mind analyzes automatically, cataloging potential mechanisms, probable effectiveness, possible side effects. But what Reed omits—what my training makes painfully apparent—is that such a powerful neural disruptor would almost certainly terminate my pregnancy. The hybrid child depends on the very biochemical pathways this compound would sever.
Freedom at the cost of the life within me. The choice, starkly presented.
With unsteady hands, I conceal the capsule in a hidden compartment of my workstation—a modification I made weeks ago when escape seemed my only objective. Now it feels like an artifact from another lifetime, created by someone I barely recognize.
I contemplate my changed body, the visible evidence of transformation. The faint iridescent patterns beneath my skin pulse gently in the dimmed laboratory lighting—another adaptation developed to support the hybrid life within. Not merely pregnancy but complete biological revolution occurring cell by cell.
Could I sacrifice this unprecedented creation for freedom? Return to resistance operations, clandestine networks and suppressant distribution, to existence defined by opposition rather than adaptation?
Or remain here, in this gilded captivity with expanding research opportunities, with a captor who has become... something else. Something beyond simple categorization.
The laboratory door opens before I can descend further into moral uncertainty. Nezzar enters, his scales reflecting the aquamarine glow of specimen containment units.
"You should be resting," he says, his tone conveying concern rather than command. "The pregnancy requires considerable energy resources."
I quickly close the analysis program, heart racing with fear he might somehow detect the hidden message, the capsule, my divided loyalties. "Couldn't sleep," I manage, aiming for casual and failing completely.
His tongue samples the air, and I brace for accusation. But he misinterprets my evident distress, his powerful lower body curling around me in what I've learned to recognize as his version of comfort.
"Hormonal fluctuations frequently disrupt sleep patterns during this developmental phase," he explains, one hand settling protectively over our growing offspring. "The hybrid remains stable despite accelerated growth. Your adaptation surpasses all previous human-naga pairings."
The pride in his voice creates unwelcome warmth. Pride in me, in my body's accomplishment, in the unprecedented creation we've produced together. It's far easier to hate a monster than... whatever Nezzar has become to me.
"I've been tracking neurovascular development," I say, unconsciously leaning into his touch. "The embryo displays both naga temperature sensitivity and human cognitive structures. Evolutionarily fascinating."
"It's miraculous," he corrects, and the genuine wonder in his typically controlled voice twists something deep inside me.
As his coils draw me closer, I feel the hidden capsule's presence like smoldering coal in my awareness. Seven days. Seven days to decide between impossible futures—freedom without the child, or captivity with... with what? Scientific opportunity? Witnessing unprecedented biological development? A relationship evolved beyond captor and captive into something indefinable?
Or perhaps the most terrifying possibility: that somewhere amid months of venom and claiming and adaptation, I've developed feelings for my captor that transcend mere biochemistry.
The realization strikes with such force that I physically waver, Nezzar's coils tightening instinctively to steady me.
"You're exhausted," he says, misinterpreting my reaction again. "Come. You require rest."
As he guides me back to our quarters, the impending decision weighs like physical presence between us. Seven days to choose between worlds. Seven days to determine not just my future, but the future of the unprecedented life within me.
Seven days to acknowledge what I've been denying for weeks: that the most complicated aspect of this equation isn't the venom dependency or the pregnancy or even the captivity itself.
It's the fact that I'm no longer certain I want to leave.