Page 4 of Naga’s Mate (Prime Omegaverse #2)

CHAPTER 3

CAUGHT IN THE COILS

Something is wrong. Terribly, catastrophically wrong.

Heat erupts across my skin like wildfire, a sensation so alien after years of chemical suppression that it momentarily paralyzes my thoughts. My careful calculations, my precise formulations—disintegrating in an instant. The suppressants shouldn't be deteriorating this rapidly.

"The pollens," I whisper, realization dawning as I scan the experimental zone surrounding me.

Of course. The modified Nymphaea lumina variants being cultivated for enhanced cross-pollination. Their specialized pollen engineered to neutralize chemical barriers between species—evidently including the barriers I've meticulously constructed within my own biochemistry.

Another surge of heat cascades through me, this one powerful enough to make my legs threaten to buckle. I grasp the nearest workbench, fingers blanching against polished steel. The feverish warmth radiating through my body feels like betrayal incarnate. Five years of precise chemical manipulation of my own biology, unraveling because I selected the wrong evening for collection.

When the first telltale moisture forms between my thighs, nausea rises in my throat. My body turning traitor, preparing itself for something my mind has rejected since the dimensional rifts first appeared.

"Focus, Lyra," I command myself, forcing my scientist's rationality to override omega instincts. "Calculate. Adapt. Survive."

Abandoning my half-collected specimens feels like severing a lifeline—these rare botanical components represent my salvation, the critical elements for reconstructing my suppressants. But they become damning evidence if I'm discovered in advancing heat with them in my possession. Undeniable proof of my deception.

I need my emergency supplies. The concentrated compounds hidden in my private laboratory might temporarily mask these symptoms, allowing me to escape the facility before anyone detects my true designation.

My legs feel simultaneously leaden and insubstantial as I force myself toward the exit. Each movement sends uncomfortable awareness rippling through my increasingly responsive skin. The greenhouse's oppressive humidity—normally merely an environmental inconvenience—now seems like deliberate torture, every moisture droplet amplifying the pheromones my body suddenly yearns to broadcast.

What term had Dr. Chen used in her pre-Conquest research? Biochemical signature amplification. The omega body's evolutionary adaptation ensuring detection by compatible alphas. A survival mechanism from primitive times now perverted into the perfect capture system.

I'm halfway to the section doorway when the atmosphere shifts. Not a ventilation change or air current redistribution, but something more primal. The environmental equivalent of an apex predator entering a clearing.

The fine hairs at my nape stand rigid in primitive warning.

I freeze, my body recognizing danger before my conscious mind processes it. The greenhouse's nocturnal lighting bathes everything in ethereal blue-green radiance, bioluminescent specimens creating islands of unearthly glow amid darker vegetation. I strain to penetrate the dense foliage, suddenly desperate to identify what my instincts are screaming about.

That's when I notice it. The unnatural stillness. Plants exist in constant motion—subtle responses to air circulation, growth patterns, water distribution. But surrounding me, everything has gone impossibly, unnaturally motionless. As if the vegetation itself holds its collective breath.

Then the shadows consolidate, assuming form with nightmare inevitability.

Commander Nezzar.

He materializes from darkness like a fever dream made flesh, his imposing figure blocking the pathway completely. Under the spectral illumination of bioluminescent flora, his scales shimmer with mesmerizing iridescence—transitioning between deep emerald and midnight sapphire with each subtle movement. His upper torso might almost pass for human if not for the gleaming scales scattered across powerful shoulders and broad chest, the inhuman amber eyes with vertical pupils now fixed upon me with hunter's intensity. Below his waist, his form transforms into the massive serpentine body that defines his species—sinuous, powerful, and unmistakably lethal.

"The pollens revealed your truth," he states, his voice unexpectedly melodic, almost hypnotic, requiring a moment to register the dangerous undertone beneath its beauty. His forked tongue flickers outward, sampling the air between us. Sampling me . "You belong in a breeding center, not a laboratory."

I've rehearsed this scenario countless times—the nightmare of discovery—running endless mental simulations of my response, my escape strategy. None of that careful preparation survives actual confrontation. Pure instinct overwhelms reason, and before I can consider the futility, I spin and bolt.

The sound following me chills my blood—something between a hiss and a chuckle, the amused acknowledgment of prey attempting escape. I manage exactly three steps before his reaction proves my flight was doomed from conception.

His muscular length moves with impossible speed, unspooling and rewrapping around me with terrifying precision. One moment I'm running; the next I'm completely immobilized, powerful coils encircling my torso, arms, and legs. Not crushing—he modulates the pressure carefully—but utterly inescapable.

"Please," I gasp, mortified to hear the word emerge as something between objection and supplication. "You don't understand. I'm valuable to the research division. My work on hybrid plant adaptation has increased cultivation efficiency by thirty-seven percent. I can contribute more effectively unprocessed?—"

"Unprocessed?" he interrupts, amber eyes examining me with unsettling thoroughness. "Is that how you conceptualize proper omega claiming? As processing?"

Another wave of heat surges through my body, stronger than before. My skin feels feverish, hypersensitive where his scales contact me through the thin fabric of my clothing. To my absolute humiliation, more dampness gathers between my thighs, my body responding to his proximity with biological eagerness completely disconnected from my conscious terror.

"I'm a scientist," I attempt again, struggling to maintain vocal steadiness as his coils shift subtly around me, adjusting their grip with disturbing intimacy. "My value lies in my mind, not?—"

"Not this?" he inquires, scaled fingers hovering just above my throat where my scent gland pulses treacherously beneath the skin. He doesn't make contact, doesn't need to. The mere proximity of an alpha—especially one as dominant as him—triggers involuntary response. I feel the gland swelling, warming, beginning to release the pheromones I've chemically suppressed through five desperate years.

"Both aspects of your nature have value," he continues, his tongue sampling my intensifying scent. "Your deception, however, does not."

"It wasn't deception," I counter automatically, scientific precision asserting itself even through terror. "It was chemical suppression of biological imperatives that would have prevented me from contributing my cognitive abilities to post-Conquest botanical research."

A sound reverberates through his massive frame—something between amusement and appreciation. "Impressive articulation for an omega entering heat acceleration. Your intellect remains sharp even as your physiology surrenders."

"I'm surrendering nothing," I snap, renewing my struggle against his coils despite their immovable strength. The effort sends another pulse of heat through me, more moisture forming in humiliating response to the friction of his scales against my increasingly sensitized skin.

"Your conscious mind may resist," Nezzar observes, his melodious voice dropping to a deeper register that somehow resonates directly with the primitive portion of my brain. "But your biology speaks truth. You're entering heat acceleration. Within hours, you'll be pleading for alpha completion."

"Never," I hiss through clenched teeth, even as another surge of unwanted arousal makes mockery of my defiance.

His smile reveals teeth too pointed for comfort, tongue darting out to sample my intensifying pheromones. "The most fascinating aspect of omega heat is its elimination of dishonesty. The body cannot maintain deception when biological imperatives assert dominance."

I want to argue, to continue insisting my willpower can overcome mere physiological responses, but my body chooses that precise moment to betray me entirely. A wave of heat unlike anything previously experienced crashes through me, liquefying my bones and drawing an involuntary sound from my throat—half gasp, half moan.

"Remarkable," Nezzar murmurs, amber eyes dilating as he interprets my involuntary responses with predatory precision. "Your suppressants must have been extraordinarily sophisticated to have contained such potent omega biology. The heat backlash will be correspondingly intense."

My scientific mind comprehends immediately what he means. Five years of chemical suppression has created perfect conditions for biological revolt—my physiology now overcompensating with accelerated heat development. What should progress over twenty-four to forty-eight hours might compress into mere hours. The implication terrifies me more than the physical restraint of his coils.

"Please," I repeat, detesting how the word increasingly resembles begging. "I have emergency suppressants in my lab. Just allow me to administer them, and we can discuss alternative arrangements. I can continue my research under supervision. I can?—"

"Continue deceiving us?" Nezzar interrupts, his coils tightening fractionally around me. Not painful, but an unmistakable reminder of my complete powerlessness. "Continue violating Conquest Law by concealing your true designation? That option no longer exists, Dr. Wilson."

The use of my professional title momentarily disorients me. How much information does he possess about me? How long has he harbored suspicions?

"You're aware of my position," I state cautiously.

"I'm aware of your contributions to botanical research," he confirms, shifting his massive form to begin transporting us away from the experimental section. His coils maintain their grip around me, but now he's moving me—destination unknown, and that uncertainty triggers fresh panic through my system. "I'm also aware those contributions came from an unregistered omega illegally suppressing her nature. Both facts inform my decision regarding your disposition."

"Decision?" I echo, cold dread forming despite the heat flooding my system. "You've already determined what happens to me?"

His vertical pupils fix on me with disconcerting focus. "Under standard protocol, unregistered omegas—particularly those employing illegal suppressants—are immediately transferred to breeding facilities. Their deception forfeits their right to individual claiming."

The breeding facilities. Sterile, clinical environments where unclaimed omegas are assigned to compatible alphas based on genetic algorithms. Where heats are chemically induced and maintained at artificial levels ensuring constant fertility. Where offspring are removed immediately after birth for specialized nurseries while omega parents continue the breeding cycle.

My worst nightmare, precisely articulated.

"But you're not following standard protocol," I observe, grasping at the implication in his statement. "Otherwise, we'd be proceeding to processing, not..." I glance around, trying to determine our destination as we move deeper into the greenhouse complex.

"Correct." His tongue samples the air again, detecting the increasingly sweet notes in my scent as my heat progresses despite mental resistance. "Your research is too valuable to waste on standardized breeding assignments. Your knowledge of botanical compounds, particularly those employed in suppressant formulation, indicates exceptional understanding of chemical interactions."

He pauses, amber eyes studying my expression with calculation that somehow frightens me more than simple alpha aggression would have. "Such expertise should be preserved, directed, utilized. Not diluted in a breeding facility's systematic approach."

Understanding crystallizes with sickening clarity. "You're claiming me yourself."

It's not a question, but he inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Your intellect belongs in a laboratory. Your omega biology requires proper alpha claiming. I can accommodate both requirements."

The dual nature of his assertion—recognizing my scientific value while simultaneously establishing ownership of my body—creates cognitive dissonance so profound I struggle forming a response. Part of me—the independent researcher who's survived five years through intelligence and chemical manipulation—rejects this absolutely. But horrifyingly, another part—the omega biology now emerging from chemical suppression—responds with treasonous interest.

"And if I refuse?" I manage, though we both recognize the emptiness of this question. Under Conquest Law, omegas possess no right to refuse claiming. Especially not unregistered omegas caught using prohibited suppressants.

"Then you demonstrate surprisingly poor analytical skills for someone of your scientific background," he replies, his coils adjusting their hold as we navigate through a section of the greenhouse I've never been authorized to enter. "This is not negotiation, Dr. Wilson. It is notification."

Another surge of heat pulses through me, drawing an involuntary whimper I cannot suppress. The intensity increases exponentially, confirming my fears. Without my carefully formulated suppressants, my body rushes headlong into what five years of chemistry held at bay.

We're moving deeper into restricted sections now, past security barriers that would have been impenetrable to me alone. The vegetation changes noticeably—more exotic specimens, many unfamiliar despite my extensive botanical knowledge. The humidity intensifies further, temperature rising to levels clearly optimized for naga physiology rather than human comfort.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, fighting to maintain vocal control as perspiration beads across my increasingly responsive skin.

"To my private territory," Nezzar responds, his melodious voice simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. "Where your claiming will proceed without interruption."

The clinical precision of his statement sends simultaneous waves of fear and—to my absolute self-disgust—arousal through my treacherous body. More moisture forms between my thighs, the scent of my advancing heat now unmistakable even to my dulled human senses. What must it register as to him, with chemosensory capabilities thousands of times more acute than mine?

We pass through a final security barrier—a massive door responding to some signal from Nezzar imperceptible to me—and enter a space unlike anything within the research complex. The chamber has cathedral-like proportions, its ceiling disappearing into misty heights. Living walls covered with meticulously cultivated plants surround pools of mineral-rich water bubbling gently, releasing scented vapor permeating everything.

This is not a laboratory. Not a security station. Not any official facility space I've encountered during my years of employment.

This is his lair. His nest. His claiming ground.

"Please," I attempt one final time as he uncoils enough to place me on my feet while maintaining restraining loops around my lower body. "There must be alternative arrangements. I'll register officially. I'll accept supervision. I'll?—"

"You'll be claimed," he interrupts, amber eyes now fully dilated with predatory focus. "As you should have been five years ago when your omega biology emerged. The only distinction is that your deception has earned you specialized claiming rather than processing through standard channels."

His tongue flickers outward again, sampling the increasingly sweet notes of my scent as another wave of heat pulses through me. This time, the sensation overwhelms my strength, making my knees buckle. Only his supporting coils prevent my collapse as my body surrenders further to biology I've spent years denying.

"The pollens revealed your truth," he repeats, his earlier words now carrying deeper significance as I comprehend how completely my carefully constructed existence has unraveled. "And now you will fulfill both aspects of your nature—the scientist and the omega. Beginning tonight."

As his coils tighten around me with possessive determination, I recognize with terrible certainty that my five years of freedom have ended. In their place begins something I've feared since the moment the dimensional rifts opened and monsters emerged to remake our world—a reality where my body's biology dictates my fate, regardless of my mind's rejection.

I'm caught in the coils, literally and metaphorically. And there's no escape from either.