Page 17 of Naga’s Mate (Prime Omegaverse #2)

CHAPTER 16

RECAPTURE

Two weeks into my imprisonment—correction, my "rescue"—and I've mastered the art of smiling while scheming. It's remarkable how readily the resistance accepts my facade of gratitude, as if being transferred from one captor to another should inspire genuine appreciation. Stockholm syndrome inverted. Is there a clinical term for that? Perhaps Reed could devise one while lecturing me on appropriate emotional responses.

"Your contributions will save countless human lives," he tells me this morning, observing my work in the assigned laboratory. A sterile enclosure of harsh lighting and unyielding surfaces, worlds apart from the living laboratory Nezzar and I cultivated together.

"Of course," I reply, the picture of dutiful compliance. I carefully measure compounds that could theoretically disrupt naga neural pathways, deliberately introducing subtle molecular flaws that would render them ineffective. A minor rebellion, but not insignificant.

Without venom-enhanced perception, the work frustrates me constantly. Colors appear lifeless, scents convey only their primary notes, and my hands lack the precision I'd grown accustomed to. The resistance celebrates these changes as "returning to proper human functioning," conveniently disregarding how they've diminished my research capabilities.

The withdrawal symptoms have stabilized into something almost bearable—persistent low-grade fever, intermittent tremors, and a hollow ache deep within my marrow that resembles homesickness for a biochemistry no longer mine. Restful sleep remains elusive. I lie awake nightly, my body instinctively seeking the serpentine embrace that once surrounded me, the venom that transformed my nervous system into something remarkable.

My quarters—effectively a cell, despite the desk and private bathroom—remain under constant surveillance. The camera mounted in the corner doesn't attempt discretion. "For your protection," Reed explained when I questioned it. Protection from what, he never clarified. Probably from my own "compromised judgment," as they see it.

Tonight marks my fourteenth night of captivity. The clock reads 3:17 AM when I first notice something different. Not a sound or a sight, but an absence—the background electrical hum of security systems has ceased. I sit up cautiously, wondering whether it's merely a power fluctuation or something more significant.

The air feels different. Heavier. More humid.

A distant splash reaches my ears, followed by another, then silence. Not the ambient sounds of surrounding wetlands—these are deliberate movements. Calculated. Precise.

My heart accelerates against my ribcage in a rhythm that feels foreign after weeks of dull resignation. I move to the door, pressing my ear against it. The guards who typically patrol the corridor have gone silent. No footsteps, no conversation, nothing.

Minutes stretch endlessly. Then, unmistakably, comes a sound that sends electricity through my veins—the soft, distinctive whisper of scales gliding across dampened surfaces. Not random wetland creatures, but the synchronized movement of predators with clear purpose.

The first alarm wails at 3:42 AM, already too late to matter.

By the time second and third alarms join the cacophony, the compound has descended into chaos. Shouts echo through corridors, followed by unmistakable combat sounds—human cries abruptly silenced, the cracking impact of powerful tails against bone, the hissing commands of naga warriors executing their mission with lethal precision.

I retreat from the door, uncertain how to proceed. Escape seems impossible with nagas flooding the compound, yet remaining locked in my room makes me vulnerable to either side. The resistance might determine a valuable asset is better eliminated than recaptured; the nagas might strike first and recognize too late.

The fighting approaches, distinctive sounds of naga combat techniques—the whip-crack of powerful tails, the liquid hiss of venom deployed as weapon rather than pleasure-inducer—now just beyond my corridor. The overhead lights flicker repeatedly before failing completely, plunging the room into darkness broken only by crimson emergency illumination.

When the door explodes inward in a shower of splintered wood and twisted metal, nothing prepares me for the impact of seeing him again.

Nezzar fills the doorframe entirely, his massive form barely contained by the human-scaled entrance. Scales cover him completely—not just the patterns visible during our intimate moments, but a full transformation leaving only his torso and head recognizably humanoid in shape. His eyes have narrowed to vertical slits glowing amber in the emergency lighting, pupils contracted to predatory focus. His powerful tail crushes debris beneath it with casual strength that would shatter human bones just as easily.

The sight of him arrests my breath, fear and something dangerously similar to relief warring within me.

His gaze locks onto mine with an intensity transcending simple predator-prey dynamics. Beyond possession, beyond anger, beyond even the rut-driven claiming of our initial encounters—this is something complex and unnameable, an emotion with no human equivalent.

"Lyra," he says, my name emerging as half-word, half-hiss in his transformed state.

Before I can respond, movement flashes behind him. Reed appears in the shattered doorway, wielding what I recognize as a prototype weapon from the laboratory—a specialized electrical discharge device designed for naga nervous systems, theoretically capable of inducing paralysis without killing.

"Get back!" Reed shouts, though whether commanding me or Nezzar remains unclear.

The confrontation unfolds with brutal efficiency. Reed manages a single shot, the weapon discharging with a sharp crack of energy that glances off Nezzar's scales in a spray of azure sparks. Before he can recalibrate for a second attempt, Nezzar's tail whips across the room with lethal accuracy. The impact lifts Reed from his feet and crushes him against the concrete wall with sickening finality, the sound of collapsing ribs and shattering vertebrae unmistakable even through the alarms.

Reed slides lifelessly to the floor, leaving a crimson trail against institutional gray, eyes vacant and staring. The weapon clatters uselessly beside him.

I should feel something—horror, grief, shock—at witnessing my former mentor's violent death. Instead, cold numbness spreads through me, memories of naga juvenile specimens in his laboratory flashing through my mind. How many children had those hands dissected in the name of resistance? How many deaths had he celebrated as "necessary elimination of the threat"?

Nezzar turns back to me, his massive form moving with impossible fluidity for something so large. Around us, combat sounds continue but more distant now—the strike team methodically clearing the compound section by section.

"You've suffered greatly for their lies," he says, his voice approaching its normal timbre as he advances with careful restraint. His tongue flickers outward, sampling the air surrounding me, assessing my physical condition through scent more precisely than any medical scan.

I'm unprepared for what happens next. As he draws nearer, something within me responds—not fear or revulsion, but recognition. My body, starved of the venom it had adapted to require, suddenly identifies its source. The biochemical connection we shared hasn't entirely dissipated, and proximity triggers an immediate physiological response.

The tremors that have plagued me for weeks suddenly diminish. The persistent headache recedes. My hypersensitive, painful skin suddenly feels normal again. It's as though my cells recognize his presence at a molecular level, responding to some invisible signal promising relief from constant biochemical deprivation.

His coils gather my weakened form with familiar precision, supporting my weight in a manner both restraining and stabilizing. The texture of his scales against my skin sends conflicting signals to my brain—danger and safety simultaneously, captor and savior embodied in the same powerful form.

"I didn't choose to leave," I whisper, the words emerging unbidden. It suddenly seems vital that he understand this.

"I know," he responds, golden eyes studying me with penetrating intensity. "The chemical markers in your blood tell the story your words don't need to."

Another explosion rocks the compound, closer this time. Nezzar's head turns slightly, assessing tactical developments without shifting his primary focus from me. "We must go. Now."

I should resist. I should struggle. I should demand freedom rather than exchange captivities. These are the thoughts my rational mind insists upon.

My body disagrees entirely.

As his coils wrap more securely around me, familiar pressure against muscles that have ached for precisely this contact through fourteen endless days, the relief is so profound that tears spring unbidden. The skin-to-scale contact immediately begins alleviating withdrawal symptoms that Reed's treatments never touched, my nerve endings responding with recognition.

"I can provide medical intervention now," Nezzar says, producing a small device I recognize from his healing pools—a targeted venom delivery system for specific therapeutic purposes. "Or you can wait until we reach safety. Your choice."

Choice. Such a deceptively simple word for such a complex concept.

I look at the device, then at Reed's broken body, then back at Nezzar. The resistance promised freedom but delivered different constraints. Nezzar never pretended his claiming was anything but possession, yet somehow granted me agency within those boundaries that Reed would never have permitted.

"Now," I decide, voice steadier than anticipated. "I'm tired of suffering."

He administers a precisely measured dose that courses through my system like electric current. Not the euphoric pleasure of his claiming venom, but a medical variant targeting the neural pathways most damaged by withdrawal. The effect manifests immediately—my vision sharpens slightly, the constant pain recedes, and my limbs stabilize.

As he carries me from the compound through the raid's aftermath, I don't resist his possession. I should. Every principle of autonomy I once cherished demands resistance, insists that exchanging captors represents no victory.

But my body recognizes what my mind still processes—with Nezzar, I evolved beyond my former limitations. With the resistance, I was expected to remain safely, conventionally human. The choice between captivities suddenly seems less about freedom and more about potential.

Outside, wetlands stretch into darkness interrupted by the compound's emergency beacons. Naga warriors navigate the shallow waters with natural amphibious advantage, some transporting prisoners, others securing perimeters. All move with coordinated precision that makes the resistance's military discipline appear amateur by comparison.

"The others?" I ask, uncertain what precisely I'm asking.

"Those who surrendered will face judgment according to Conquest Law," Nezzar replies, his powerful form navigating the marshy terrain effortlessly. "Those who resisted have been eliminated."

I should feel horror at this. Instead, I remember trophy collections, weapons designed specifically to maximize suffering, Reed's clinical description of killing naga children. The moral calculus has grown too complicated for simple human/naga divisions.

As we move deeper into the wetlands where specialized transport awaits, I rest my head against Nezzar's scales, exhaustion finally overcoming anxiety. My final thought before surrendering to the first genuine sleep in fourteen days isn't about freedom or captivity, but about the complex territory between—where adaptation might constitute its own form of resistance, and where becoming something new might hold greater value than preserving what was.

Whatever tomorrow brings, at least the constant pain has ceased. For now, that's enough.