Page 18 of Naga’s Mate (Prime Omegaverse #2)

CHAPTER 17

RETURN TO THE COILS

The transport glides through the wetlands, fog swirling around us like ghostly fingers. I drift in and out of consciousness, time losing all meaning. Pain is my only constant companion—sharp, relentless, and entirely deserved.

I made my choice. I swallowed Reed's capsule knowing it would kill the life growing inside me. Freedom at any cost. Except the price turned out to be higher than I ever imagined.

"Approaching secure perimeter," Nezzar announces, his voice cutting through my mental haze.

I force my eyes open and take in my surroundings through blurred vision. The specialized naga medical vehicle hums with technology I once would have given anything to study. Now I'm just cargo being transported back to captivity. The image of Reed's broken body against the wall flashes through my mind—his life extinguished in seconds by Nezzar's powerful tail. I should feel something about his death. Horror. Grief. Anything. Instead, all I can think about is the collection of naga juvenile specimens I found in his laboratory. Trophy kills displayed with scientific precision.

My body convulses suddenly, muscles seizing so violently that I bite through my bottom lip. The taste of blood fills my mouth—a minor hurt compared to the supernova of agony radiating from my empty womb.

"Your system is failing," Nezzar states, his clinical tone at odds with the tension visible in his coiled form. "The purging compounds were designed for elimination, not survival."

He administers medical venom through a precision injector rather than the intimate claiming bite I'd grown accustomed to. Relief spirals through my ravaged nervous system immediately. The withdrawal symptoms don't disappear completely, but they recede from unbearable to merely excruciating. I hate how my body responds to his biochemistry, cells recognizing their master even as my mind rebels against the dependency.

I hate even more the tears of gratitude that form in my eyes.

"The compound worked faster than they expected," I whisper, remembering the resistance team's clinical observations as I hemorrhaged on their transport floor. "They didn't care if I survived the purge."

Nezzar's tongue flicks out, tasting the air. "Your survival was secondary to eliminating all traces of naga influence. Including our offspring."

No accusation colors his voice. Just simple recognition of fact that somehow cuts deeper than any recrimination could. The resistance lied about their motivations while Nezzar's brutal honesty leaves nowhere to hide.

When we reach the research complex, I notice dramatic changes since my extraction. Security enhancements dominate the landscape—reinforced barriers, increased military presence, guards with specialized combat modifications evident in their scale patterns. A territory violated, now fortified against further intrusion.

I brace myself to be taken to our previously shared quarters, expecting whatever form his reclaiming will take. Punishment. Dominance display. The triumphant alpha reasserting ownership over his wayward omega. The script seems predetermined by biological imperative and Conquest Law.

Instead, we enter an unfamiliar section of the complex—a specialized medical wing with technology beyond anything I've seen despite months of exposure to naga advancements. Living walls pulse with bioluminescent patterns that somehow soothe my hypersensitive nervous system. Water features circulate with purpose beyond aesthetics, humidity calibrated to optimize healing.

"You require healing before anything else," Nezzar says, his tone neutral where I expected rage or triumphant possession.

The recovery room blends clinical functionality with organic comfort in a way only naga architecture achieves. Monitoring systems integrate with living plant components. Atmospheric regulators maintain perfect balance of temperature and humidity. A recovery platform conforms to body weight, relieving pressure from damaged tissues.

"I don't understand," I admit, too exhausted for pretense. "Why aren't you punishing me?"

His golden eyes study me with unreadable emotion. "Punishment would serve no purpose. Your body already suffers consequences more severe than anything I could impose."

The following days reveal the full extent of what the resistance's "treatment" did to my body. The purging compounds didn't simply terminate my pregnancy and neutralize venom dependency—they systematically attacked every cell that had adapted to naga biochemistry. Like scorching earth to kill a single weed, indifferent to collateral damage.

Naga medical technology proves far more advanced than I would have believed possible. Living tissue interfaces bond with my damaged systems, promoting healing while monitoring recovery. Specialized venom compounds target specific areas of damage without triggering the pleasure response or dependency cycle that characterized our previous relationship.

"Your physiology shows remarkable resilience," observes one of the specialists Nezzar has brought in to oversee my treatment. "Most humans would not survive such aggressive chemical purging."

"The same trait that enabled her unprecedented adaptation to the venom bond," Nezzar replies, something like appreciation in his voice—not possession but scientific recognition.

Throughout this process, Nezzar remains nearby but maintains physical distance that increasingly confuses my clearing mind. Where is the dominant alpha reclaiming his omega? Where is the rage at my betrayal? The punishment for my willing participation in the resistance extraction?

On the fifth night, as specialized healing compounds cycle through my system, I finally gather courage to voice the question that haunts me.

"Why didn't you let me die?" The words emerge ragged, honest in their brutality. "I chose to terminate our offspring. I knew what the capsule would do."

"Yet you weep each night," he responds, his scales shifting in patterns I can't fully interpret. "Your scent carries the bitter markers of regret."

The observation strikes with surgical precision, laying bare the contradiction I've been avoiding. If I was so certain of my choice, why am I drowning in remorse?

"I thought I wanted freedom more than anything," I whisper, the admission painful in its honesty. "I thought escaping you was worth any price."

"And now?"

"Now I understand there are prices too high to pay." My hand moves unconsciously to my empty womb, to the space where possibility once grew. "I can't take it back. Can't undo what I chose."

"No," he agrees, the single syllable heavy with shared loss. "What's done is done."

Silence stretches between us, filled with grief neither species has adequate vocabulary to express. What do you call the emotion that emerges when captor and captive mourn together? When shared creation matters more than the coercion that initiated it?

"They took more than offspring," he says finally, genuine pain evident in his usually controlled voice. "They took possibility."

It's the first glimpse I've had behind his dominant facade, a momentary revelation of something unexpectedly vulnerable in the powerful alpha.

"Our offspring represented unprecedented developmental success," he continues, coils shifting restlessly. "Not merely viable hybrid life but potential evolutionary advancement. The specialized venom bond we developed allowed your system to support genetic integration no previous human-naga pairing has achieved."

The scientific assessment doesn't fully mask the personal loss. I remember his expression when I first confirmed the pregnancy—not merely possessive triumph but genuine wonder. That same wonder now inverted into grief.

"I made the wrong choice," I admit, the words inadequate for the magnitude of my error.

"Yet you survive," he responds. "You can heal. Continue."

That night, after completing medical procedures that leave me exhausted but noticeably improved, Nezzar doesn't leave as he has previous evenings. Instead, he settles his massive form beside my recovery platform, coils arranging themselves in a loose perimeter that doesn't touch me.

"You don't need to stay," I tell him, unsure what this change signifies.

"Your rest patterns improve with proximity," he responds matter-of-factly. "The venom bond, while damaged, still responds to physical presence."

It's true. My sleep has been fragmented and unsatisfying, plagued by withdrawal symptoms that intensify during unconsciousness. His presence already calms my nervous system in ways the medical interventions alone can't achieve.

As sleep begins claiming me, his coils shift closer, gradually encircling my sleeping platform without actually touching me. The familiar arrangement—protective rather than restrictive—triggers conflicting emotions. My body recognizes safety where my mind still questions captivity.

I drift toward unconsciousness with the realization that our relationship has entered territory neither of us fully understands—beyond captor and captive, beyond scientist and subject. Something not yet defined by any familiar paradigm.

His scales gleam in the dim lighting, iridescent patterns shifting with his breathing. Not touching me, but close enough that my traumatized system responds to his presence. The last thought before sleep claims me is uncomfortably honest: there are many kinds of prisons, and the one I tried to escape might be the only one where I actually belong.