Page 20 of Naga’s Mate (Prime Omegaverse #2)

CHAPTER 19

SCIENTIFIC RECONNECTION

A month into my return to captivity—or "recapture" if we're using the official terminology—and I've managed not to completely lose my mind. The physical recovery from extraction damage is essentially complete, surface tissue regeneration concealing deeper wounds that no amount of naga medical technology can truly heal. According to the specialists who've examined me like a fascinating specimen, I'm officially "recovered."

If only emotional healing came with such convenient metrics.

Nezzar has granted me renewed access to the laboratory adjacent to our quarters, a concession that almost feels like freedom until I remember the security protocols, monitoring systems, and doorways requiring his biometric authorization. A prettier cage, but still a cage.

Yet the research offers welcome distraction from the emotional wasteland I pretend doesn't exist. Botany doesn't judge. Chemical compounds don't ask uncomfortable questions about choice and consequence. Plants don't care that I sacrificed a child for freedom I ultimately failed to achieve.

I adjust the molecular scanner's sensitivity, focusing on a specimen we collected before... before everything changed. The scent particles barely register compared to what my venom-enhanced senses once detected. This loss cuts deeper than expected—beyond just physical capabilities, but the extraordinary perception the venom provided. Colors now appear flat, scents carry only surface notes, and my hands lack the steady precision I'd grown accustomed to.

"Your methodological adjustments have compensated effectively for standard human sensory limitations."

I startle at Nezzar's voice, not having heard him enter. That's another thing I've lost—the constant awareness of his location that our venom bond provided. He moves through our shared space with predatory fluidity that remains disconcerting, his serpentine lower body gliding across specialized flooring designed to accommodate his unique physiology while supporting human bipedal movement.

"I've developed new baseline calibrations," I reply, focusing intently on data that doesn't require eye contact. "The molecular recognition software needed complete reconfiguration."

He approaches, his powerful form reflected in the polished laboratory equipment. His proximity triggers an automatic response in me—a flutter deep in my core, heart rate increasing slightly, the ghost of addiction my body remembers even as chemical bonds continue weakening.

Most perplexing remains Nezzar's continued physical restraint. While providing medicinal venom preventing withdrawal symptoms, he hasn't attempted to claim me since my return. No possessive touches, no dominant coils, no alpha assertions of ownership. Only carefully measured medical doses maintaining my system's stability without triggering the pleasure response I've been conditioned to expect.

This absence creates a persistent ache I struggle to analyze objectively. Like an itch beneath skin I can't reach. Like something vital missing that I didn't know I needed until it was gone.

"Your adaptive methodology is impressive," he observes, tongue briefly sampling the air around the specimen. "The molecular signatures typically imperceptible to humans are clearly identified in your analysis."

His casual observation sends me down another experimental path—one where we function as complementary research components rather than captor and captive. For several hours, we work in synchronicity both familiar and surprising. His chemosensory abilities detect molecular patterns invisible to my limited human perception; my analytical approach identifies connections his instinct-driven assessment might overlook.

Without explicit negotiation, we've established a research partnership bridging our different biological capabilities. It shouldn't work this well. Predator and prey aren't meant to collaborate. Yet here we are, creating something neither could accomplish independently.

When I finally isolate a compound showing promise for stabilizing hybrid cell development—the project we began before my extraction—the achievement creates a moment transcending our complicated history.

"The cellular cohesion factor," Nezzar notes, his iridescent scales catching laboratory light as he leans closer to examine my results. "You've identified the missing component."

"The hybrid cells maintain structural integrity through accelerated mitosis," I confirm, excitement momentarily overwhelming emotional barriers I've constructed. "The failure point was never genetic incompatibility but cellular communication pathway disruption."

His eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us that has nothing to do with alpha dominance and everything to do with shared discovery. For that brief moment, we're not naga and human, not alpha and omega, not captor and captive—just two minds on discovery's edge.

The moment shatters as reality reasserts itself. This research could potentially create more viable human-naga offspring. Children like the one I chose to sacrifice. The implications hit with physical force, and I step back from the equipment, suddenly struggling to breathe.

Nezzar's tongue flicks outward, tasting my sudden distress. "Enough for today," he says quietly. "You need rest."

I should agree. Should retreat to the careful distance we've maintained since my return. Instead, something impulsive rises within me—the need to confront the question that's been haunting me for weeks.

"Why haven't you claimed me again?"

The words hang between us, cutting through all pretense. Nezzar goes completely still, only subtle scale movements betraying his surprise at my directness.

"Is it punishment?" I press, unable to stop now that I've begun. "For choosing extraction? For terminating—" The word catches in my throat.

"No." His response emerges with unexpected gentleness. "Punishment serves no purpose here."

"Then why? The medicinal venom prevents withdrawal, but we both know it's not the same." My hands gesture in frustrated emphasis. "My body has been conditioned to expect something you're deliberately withholding."

Nezzar shifts his massive form, coils arranging into what I recognize as his contemplative position. Golden eyes with vertical pupils study me with assessment both clinical and somehow deeply personal.

"You didn't choose to leave," he says finally, each word measured carefully. "You were manipulated while biochemically vulnerable. Reed exploited your condition."

"We both know there's more to it than that." The honesty burns, but I push forward. "I knew what the capsule would do. I made that choice."

"Under duress and withdrawal." His scales shift in patterns indicating complex emotion. "The circumstances prevented genuine choice."

"That's rich coming from someone who initially claimed me without any pretense of consent," I say, a bitter laugh escaping my throat.

"Yes." His simple acknowledgment stops me cold. "Our beginning was not based on choice. Which is why this must be."

"This?" I repeat, not understanding.

"The choice must be yours this time." No command in his voice, no alpha assertion—just a statement that somehow changes everything between us. "Claiming without consent created our initial dynamic. Whatever comes next needs a different foundation."

The words hit me like a physical force, reshaping everything I thought I understood about our relationship. This acknowledgment of my agency—something supposedly impossible under Conquest Law—creates a shift I struggle to process.

"Conquest Law gives you absolute claiming rights," I say, voicing my confusion. "Omegas can't legally refuse."

"Legal frameworks don't encompass everything that can exist between us," he responds, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. "What developed between us became something beyond standard parameters."

I lean against the counter, suddenly needing support. "You're saying you won't claim me again unless I choose it?"

"Yes."

One syllable that contradicts everything I believed about him, about naga alphas, about this entire situation.

"Why?" I ask, needing to understand this impossible shift.

His powerful body moves restlessly, scales catching light in mesmerizing patterns. "Because claiming creates connection. Connection without choice becomes mere possession. What existed between us grew into something more than possession."

The hesitation in his normally confident voice reveals vulnerability I never expected from him. As if he's feeling his way through unfamiliar territory, same as me.

"And if I never choose it?" I ask quietly.

"Then medical venom will continue preventing withdrawal symptoms until your system completes adaptation. Eventually, dependency will fade."

"And then?"

His eyes meet mine with unexpected warmth. "Then you stay here as my research partner rather than claimed omega."

This can't be real. There must be some angle I'm missing. "Conquest Law wouldn't allow an unclaimed omega to remain independent."

"Administrative details are manageable," he says with a dismissive flick of his tail. "Your research value provides sufficient justification for special status."

I turn away, needing space to process what this means. Freedom within boundaries. Choice within parameters that remain fundamentally limited.

"I need time," I whisper.

"Yes." Simple acceptance where I expected persuasion. "Time to make a genuine choice."

That night, alone in my sleeping chamber, I stare at the ceiling and face the truth I've been avoiding: I miss him. Not just the venom-pleasure, but the connection we had. The awareness that flowed between us without words. The feeling of being truly seen in a way no one else has managed.

I miss the weight of his coils around me at night, the security they provided even while I was captive. I miss the bond that let us understand each other without speaking. I even miss the moments when he claimed me completely, which somehow grew into something more complex than simple domination.

What does that make me? Stockholm syndrome victim? Addict missing her drug? Or something else—something psychology doesn't have a name for yet?

The next morning, I find Nezzar already working in the lab. He's arranged new specimens—rare flowering plants from the deepest greenhouse sections, species I've never been granted access to before.

"These may provide additional stabilization compounds for the hybrid cell research," he explains, not mentioning our conversation from last night. Offering neutral scientific territory where we can work together without addressing the emotional complexity between us.

We work side by side throughout the day, maintaining physical distance while our research creates bridges between different perceptual worlds. His chemosensory abilities complement my analytical approach. My pattern recognition balances his instinct-driven assessment. Together, we develop methodology neither species could create alone.

When I accidentally brush against his scales while reaching for equipment, electricity rushes through me—a reminder that our connection hasn't completely vanished, despite everything the resistance did to break it.

Nezzar freezes momentarily, his reaction suggesting he felt it too. Then he continues as if nothing happened, maintaining the careful space between us.

By evening, fatigue overtakes me. The emotional weight beneath my scientific focus has depleted my energy reserves. I sway slightly, grabbing the lab counter for support.

Nezzar moves with impossible speed, somehow steadying me without actually touching me. "You've exceeded your limits today," he says, concern evident in his voice.

"I'm fine," I insist stubbornly.

"Your readings suggest otherwise." He gestures toward the monitoring band I still wear. "Your system needs rest."

I don't have the energy to argue. Instead, I let him guide me toward my sleeping chamber, his powerful form near enough to catch me if needed but never quite making contact.

At the doorway between lab and sleeping space, I pause. The question forms before I can stop it.

"Would you stay?" I ask softly. "Not for claiming, just... close by."

It's more honest than saying the medical venom works better with proximity, though that's also true. What I'm really asking for is something I don't fully understand myself—comfort I never admitted needing until it vanished.

Nezzar studies me, pupils widening slightly. "If that's what you want," he says, his careful tone belied by the subtle ripple of scales that betrays emotion.

That night, though physical separation remains, something shifts between us. His coils arrange themselves on the floor beside my sleeping platform, close enough that I feel warmth radiating from him, sense the rhythm of his breathing.

As sleep approaches, I realize "choice" means something different in this strange space we've created. My options remain limited by Conquest reality and omega biology, yet somehow, being able to ask for his presence instead of having it imposed creates room for something new to grow.

Something without a proper name. Something that might build on a foundation different from our beginning.

As consciousness fades, my hand reaches toward his nearest coil—not touching, but close enough to feel the energy between us. My last clear thought carries a simple truth: whatever exists between Nezzar and me has never fit standard definitions.

Maybe it's time to stop trying to label it and just let it become whatever it's meant to be.