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

CHAPTER 1

SURVIVAL THROUGH SCIENCE

The sweet, cloying perfume of the Nymphaea nocturna fills my nostrils as I extract another drop of its luminescent nectar. My hands remain perfectly steady—fear-induced tremors are a weakness I purged years ago. Steady fingers, steady mind. Both essential for survival in this world. Especially for someone with my secret.

An omega hiding in plain sight.

The thought sends an electric current down my spine as I deposit the drop into my centrifuge tube. The plant's bioluminescent fluid casts an otherworldly azure glow across my hidden laboratory, illuminating specialized equipment I've assembled through five years of cautious acquisition and ingenuity.

Five years since the Conquest shattered reality. Five years since nightmares stepped through dimensional tears and decided humans made excellent breeding stock. Five years of masquerading as a harmless beta botanist while secretly formulating the compounds that mask my true nature.

"Almost there," I murmur, my words absorbed by the moisture-laden air. The humidity hovers at 78%—still uncomfortable for humans but necessary for my specimens to thrive. Perspiration traces paths along my temples despite the controlled temperature. New Ophidia, once New Orleans, now exists in perpetual tropical conditions to accommodate its serpentine masters.

I slide my finger across the analyzer's display, studying the biochemical profile of my latest suppressant batch. The results twist my insides into cold, hard knots.

"Damn it."

The concentration is dangerously insufficient. The Ophidia sedativa extract—the crucial component that binds to omega pheromone receptors—registers at barely 0.3%. I need at least 0.8% for the formula to remain effective for a full lunar cycle.

My eyes drift to the small drawer where I store the rare blue orchid. The reality I've been avoiding confronts me in the form of three withered stems and a handful of desiccated petals. Inadequate. Critically inadequate.

I sink onto my stool, allowing myself precisely ten seconds of controlled panic. Ten. Nine. Eight. The countdown anchors my racing thoughts. By zero, my mind has already constructed a solution.

The timing is abysmal. Section G of the main greenhouse—where the Ophidia sedativa grows—was placed under restricted access yesterday. Some high-ranking inspection from the Serpent Dominion's central authority has brought increased surveillance, guards at every junction, and zero tolerance for unauthorized human presence after curfew.

I examine the medical injector on my workbench containing my current suppressant dose. The liquid has developed a subtle cloudiness—visual evidence of its deteriorating efficacy. Twenty-six days on this batch, with normal replacement scheduled for day twenty-eight. But given the diminishing potency I've observed recently, I calculate roughly thirty-six hours before my omega biology begins to announce itself.

Thirty-six hours before I start exuding the scent that marks me as unclaimed breeding stock.

The nagas, with their hyper-refined chemical perception, would identify it instantly. A single taste of the air with those forked tongues would expose what I've concealed since I was twenty-three—that I'm not the beta female documented in their meticulous human inventories, but an omega who should have been registered, claimed, and bred years ago.

I move to the reinforced window overlooking the main complex. Darkness has descended across New Ophidia, the greenhouse facilities illuminated by bioluminescent flora that border the pathways—another naga innovation merging beauty with functionality. The security patrols slither along elevated platforms, their serpentine lower bodies allowing them to navigate with unsettling speed and grace.

Memorized patterns cascade through my mind: Eastern sector guards rotate at 11 PM, creating a seven-minute surveillance gap. The humidity regulation system initiates a purge cycle at 11:17 PM, briefly disrupting the environmental sensors. The emergency access tunnel to Section G contains a blind spot where ventilation infrastructure creates a camera shadow zone.

It's sufficient. It must be sufficient.

My fingertips trace the calluses on my palms—physical testimony to years building this precarious freedom. I refuse to surrender because of a supply shortage.

"Just another extraction," I reassure myself. "Nothing I haven't done before."

Except the stakes have never been this critical. My current suppressant will begin failing within thirty-six hours. The inspection team arrives in forty-eight. This timeline permits no errors.

I approach my personal storage cabinet, entering a sequence that reveals a concealed compartment housing my clandestine tools: dark clothing designed to minimize visibility under the greenhouse's nocturnal illumination, specialized cutters that won't trigger plant distress sensors, and a kit of chemical neutralizers that temporarily mask human scent from naga security.

As I organize my equipment, I mentally recalculate dosages and timing. I might stretch the current batch another day by doubling the Solanaceae extract, despite the headaches and nausea it induces. Better than the alternative. Better than discovery.

The alternative. My mind instinctively recoils from the thought, but discipline forces me to confront it. I've witnessed the fate of discovered omegas. The clinical processing at registration centers. The assignment to compatible Prime alphas based on genetic algorithms. The breeding programs for those deemed unsuitable for individual claiming. The vacant expressions of omegas I occasionally glimpse, their bodies transformed by hybrid pregnancies, their minds surrendered to the biochemical bondage of alpha pheromones.

No. That won't be me. Not tonight. Not ever.

I check my watch. 10:22 PM. Time to move.

The journey from my concealed lab to the main facility requires passage through the human dormitory section—a necessity creating its own risks. Beta humans enjoy relative freedom within New Ophidia's boundaries, but all remain subject to curfew mandates. Discovery outside authorized zones after hours would trigger immediate security protocols.

I remove my lab coat, replacing it with dark clothing, and tuck my copper-red hair under a close-fitting cap. My reflection in the polished steel reveals nothing of Dr. Lyra Wilson, brilliant botanist—just another shadow navigating a world ruled by monsters.

The service corridor connecting my private lab to the main facility hangs heavy with moisture. Condensation drips from overhead pipes, the omnipresent humidity a constant reminder of how thoroughly our world has been refashioned to accommodate its new rulers. I move silently, my footfalls dampened by specially modified shoes.

Three times I freeze at the distinctive whisper of scales against polished surfaces—naga security making their rounds. Each time, I press into recessed doorways or maintenance alcoves, suspending my breath as massive forms glide past. Their scent reaches me even through my dampened senses—earthy and exotic, like rain-washed stone with undertones of something primally reptilian.

By 10:58 PM, I reach the eastern access point to the greenhouse complex. I monitor security movements, timing their patterns against my memorized schedule. Right on cue, the shift change commences. The primary guard—a large male with distinctive blue-black scales—moves toward the central checkpoint, temporarily abandoning his post before his replacement arrives.

Seven minutes. My window of opportunity.

I slip through the access door in seconds, using a service credential that shouldn't function after hours but does thanks to careful electronic manipulation. The greenhouse atmosphere hits me like a physical force—hot, saturated with moisture, and rich with the fragrance of thousands of plant species.

This environment was uncomfortable before the Conquest. Now, modified to suit naga physiology, it's nearly intolerable for humans. Perspiration immediately soaks my dark clothing as I weave between massive tropical specimens. The vegetation has grown enormous under specialized cultivation, creating a jungle denser and more primeval than anything in pre-Conquest botanical gardens.

I check my watch again. 11:09 PM. Eight minutes to reach Section G before the environmental systems execute their purge cycle.

My route deliberately avoids main thoroughfares and monitoring stations. Years working in this facility have taught me the location of every camera, the existence of every sensor blind spot, which plants generate enough electromagnetic interference to disrupt surveillance equipment.

I'm halfway to my destination when it happens.

A tingling sensation skitters across my skin, so unexpected that I nearly gasp aloud. It begins at my nape, then radiates outward, sending prickling waves down my limbs and across my torso. My breath catches, pulse accelerating as I recognize the sensation with visceral dread.

Suppressant failure. Initial phase.

It shouldn't be occurring yet. I calculated thirty-six hours, minimum. But the humidity—this inescapable moisture designed for naga comfort—must be accelerating the compound's breakdown in my system.

I press against the textured bark of a massive Epipremnum giganteum , forcing my breathing to stabilize. My mind races through recalculations. If early degradation has begun, I have perhaps twelve hours before detectable omega scent emerges. Less if I can't regulate my stress response, which amplifies pheromone production.

"Stay calm," I whisper, the words barely audible. "Focus on the extraction."

Section G looms ahead—a specialized rotunda housing the rarest specimens in the greenhouse complex. Unlike other areas with their wide pathways designed for naga movement, this section features elevated walkways traversing misty pools where aquatic and semi-aquatic specimens flourish. The blue orchids I seek grow on artificial rock formations rising from these pools—perfectly positioned to make unauthorized harvesting as challenging as possible.

The security matches this precious collection. Pressure plates beneath the walkways, motion sensors calibrated to detect anything larger than the permitted pollinating insects, and most worrisome, specialized chemical sensors designed to identify human presence.

I apply my scent neutralizer to pulse points and respiration pathways. The compound stings against my skin—a side effect I've never managed to eliminate completely. It will provide fifteen minutes of chemosensory invisibility. Barely enough time to locate the orchids, extract what I need, and retreat.

A soft, distinctive hissing freezes me in place, my hand still pressed against my neck where I've applied the neutralizer. Not the ambient hiss of climate systems, but something organic. Something alive.

No. This isn't happening.

The inspection wasn't scheduled until tomorrow. The guard rotation should remain routine tonight. Unless?—

Another wave of tingling washes over my skin, stronger than the first. My suppressant is deteriorating faster than anticipated, the formula breaking down under the greenhouse's specialized environment. And somewhere nearby, moving with predatory silence through the dense foliage I'd hoped would conceal me, lurks something far more dangerous than standard security.

I press deeper into the shadows, using the massive leaves of the Epipremnum as cover. Through gaps in the vegetation, I detect movement—fluid and powerful. A massive form navigates between specimen tanks with sinuous grace impossible for human anatomy.

Commander Nezzar. Unmistakable. His size alone identifies him—larger than standard naga security, his upper torso powerfully muscled where it transitions to his serpentine lower half. Even in the diffuse bioluminescent lighting, the iridescent quality of his scales is distinctive, shifting between emerald and sapphire as he moves.

The facility's fearsome guardian, conducting an unscheduled pre-inspection tour. On the precise night I require access to restricted specimens.

My hand instinctively presses against my abdomen, where another wave of tingling signals my body's accelerating betrayal. If my suppressant fails completely in his presence, with his enhanced chemosensory capabilities...

I close my eyes briefly, compressing my panic into a tight, controlled knot. I've survived five years by outsmarting their systems, by understanding the science of scent and biology better than my captors. I won't fail now.

Section G stands less than thirty meters away. The Ophidia sedativa I need grows in the northwest quadrant. Commander Nezzar's current position places him in the eastern approach, moving with deliberate slowness as he examines specimens.

I face a choice: retreat to relative safety and confront the consequences of suppressant failure, or advance forward and risk immediate discovery by the most dangerous predator in the facility.

No choice at all, really.

I draw a deep breath, confirm my scent neutralizer remains active, and begin to move—silent as twilight, desperate as only the hunted can be.