Page 6 of Naga’s Mate (Prime Omegaverse #2)

CHAPTER 5

GREENHOUSE CAPTIVITY

Time dissolves in the greenhouse chamber. Hours melt into one another, marked only by the rhythmic cycle of bioluminescent flora and the cresting waves of my heat. I've been here a day. Perhaps two. Possibly three. The sole constant is Nezzar's presence—dominating, inescapable, overwhelming.

He keeps me in this hidden section of the facility, a space I never knew existed despite years working among these plants. The chamber feels primordial somehow, despite its post-Conquest construction. A claiming sanctuary disguised as botanical research space, where specialized specimens create the perfect atmosphere for what he's doing to me.

What I'm permitting him to do to me.

No. Not permitting. Enduring. There's a difference, I remind myself during fleeting moments of clarity, though that distinction grows fainter with each passing hour.

"Your heat is progressing exceptionally," Nezzar observes, his melodious voice carrying through the misty air as he returns with water and some nutrient-dense sustenance I barely register tasting. "The accelerated cycle is remarkable. Most human omegas require five to seven days for completion. Yours will conclude in three."

I should feel grateful for this small mercy, but all I experience is bone-deep exhaustion punctuated by desperate hunger that returns with increasing frequency. Between these episodes, brief windows of lucidity allow my scientific mind to document what's happening with detached interest that would be professional if it weren't my own body undergoing the transformation.

The chamber itself amplifies my condition. I've identified at least seven botanical species surrounding us that shouldn't exist—hybrid creations with properties I've never catalogued. The pale cerulean pollen drifting through the air doesn't trigger my allergies as it should. Instead, it produces a subtle calming effect that prevents complete panic while doing absolutely nothing to diminish the heat symptoms themselves. Calculated. So very calculated. Soothing my consciousness while leaving my body in full biological surrender.

Heat surges again before I can complete my mental assessment. My skin flushes, tingling with hypersensitivity as perspiration beads along my collarbones. Wetness forms between my thighs with mortifying readiness, my inner walls clenching around emptiness that feels increasingly intolerable with each heat wave.

Nezzar's reaction is immediate, his pupils contracting to vertical slits as his tongue flicks repeatedly, sampling my intensifying pheromones in the humid atmosphere.

"Still resisting?" he asks, scales rippling across his torso in mesmerizing patterns signaling his advancing rut. "It merely prolongs the inevitable."

His muscular length moves with predatory intent, flowing across the moss-covered floor toward me. I should run. Should struggle. Should do anything but what I actually do—which is to tilt my hips upward in unconscious presentation, my traitorous body signaling its readiness for claiming.

"I despise this," I whisper, even as my thighs part in blatant contradiction.

"Yet you display yourself for me so perfectly," he responds, his massive form encircling mine in ever-tightening loops.

When his coils finally strike, it's with precision that speaks to evolutionary perfection. Powerful bands wrap around my thighs, spreading them wider than should be comfortable. Another thick section circles my waist, lifting me effortlessly until I'm suspended in midair, completely vulnerable—able to neither escape nor brace against anything solid.

"Please," I gasp, no longer certain if I'm begging for fulfillment or reprieve. "I can't?—"

"You can," he insists, positioning me exactly as he desires—facing him, legs splayed wide, back gently arched to present my breasts to his gaze. "Your body recognizes its needs, even if your mind rebels."

The tip of his tail, more dexterous than I would have imagined, glides upward between my suspended thighs. It traces teasing circles around my entrance, gathering the moisture that flows with increasingly embarrassing abundance.

"So responsive," he observes, his forked tongue sampling the air near my most intimate parts. "Your scent grows more complex with each claiming. Soon it will carry my signature permanently."

I want to protest, to maintain some semblance of resistance, but my body betrays me completely. My hips rock toward his teasing tail tip, seeking firmer contact. A whimper escapes my throat—a sound so submissive I'd never have believed myself capable of producing it before this captivity began.

His twin organs emerge from their concealed slit, already glistening with that pearlescent venom that has rewritten my neural pathways. They're fully engorged, textured with ridges designed for internal stimulation, and my mouth waters at the sight. Another humiliating physiological response I never knew I possessed.

"Ask for what you need," he commands, holding me suspended and empty despite the obvious desire radiating from every pore.

"No," I manage, though the word carries no conviction.

His response is immediate and cruelly effective. His tail tip, which had been teasing my entrance, glides upward to circle my swollen bundle of nerves with precise pressure—enough to intensify desire but nowhere near sufficient to provide relief.

"Then I'll maintain you like this," he says, golden eyes examining my suspended form with predatory patience. "Needing. Vacant. Desperate. Until you acknowledge your requirement."

The pleasure builds to an unbearable threshold that never crests, his tail maintaining perfect rhythm against sensitive flesh while providing none of the fullness my body demands. Tears of frustration spill from my eyes, trailing down flushed cheeks as my resistance disintegrates.

"Please," I finally sob, omega submission overwhelming scientific pride. "I need you inside me. Need your—your cocks. Please, alpha."

Victory flashes in his inhuman gaze, tongue flicking out to taste my surrender. "Such beautiful supplication. Again."

"Please!" I cry, shameless now in my need. "Fill me, claim me, anything—just don't leave me empty!"

This time his response is immediate. His coils reposition me with terrifying efficiency, turning me in midair so my back presses against his scaled chest, my legs spread wide on either side of his serpentine lower body. I'm completely exposed, presented like breeding stock—which is exactly what I am in this moment, regardless of my academic credentials or intellectual capabilities.

When he enters me, it's with a single powerful thrust that seats both organs completely. The stretch is exquisite, my body having adapted to his inhuman dimensions with disturbing rapidity. My inner walls embrace the dual invasion, welcoming rather than rejecting.

"Mine," he growls against my neck, his forked tongue tracing the sensitive skin where my scent gland pulses with submission signals.

The claiming rhythm is relentless, his coils performing most of the work—raising and lowering my body onto his twin shafts with mechanical precision. I'm not so much a participant as a vessel, my agency stripped away by heat biology and his absolute control. Yet somehow, this surrender triggers pleasure so intense it borders on torment.

Venom floods my system with each thrust, that initial coolness quickly transforming to liquid fire that races along neural pathways established during previous claimings. Colors intensify around me, the bioluminescent plants now surrounded with chemical signatures I couldn't perceive before the venom altered my sensory processing.

His coils shift again, repositioning me onto hands and knees atop a bed of soft moss. He towers over me, scales now covering his entire upper body as his rut deepens in response to my heat. His organs withdraw only to drive back into me with bruising force, the textured surfaces creating friction that sends waves of pleasure cascading up my spine.

"Your body was designed for this purpose," he hisses, voice barely recognizable as anything human. "Created to accommodate me, to be flooded with my essence, to nurture my offspring and fulfill my intentions."

I should reject these declarations. Should cling to my identity as a scientist rather than breeding vessel. Instead, I find myself pressing backward into his thrusts, taking him deeper, offering myself more completely.

"Yes," I moan, the word emerging from somewhere primal inside me. "Yes, alpha."

His tempo increases, brutally efficient as one scaled hand slides beneath me to find my sensitive bud. His touch is precise, unerring—as if he's mapped every millimeter of my body and knows exactly how to extract maximum response. Another coil wraps around my throat, applying just enough pressure to make breathing deliberate without restricting air completely. The edge of danger only heightens the pleasure, my omega biology recognizing the dominance display at a cellular level.

When his teeth graze against my scent gland, instinct overrides everything. My head tilts sideways, exposing my neck in primal submission, offering the most vulnerable part of myself to his claiming.

"Mine," he snarls against my skin, his movements growing erratic as his own climax approaches. "Forever."

His teeth pierce my neck just as his cocks pulse within me, the dual claiming—bite and seed—hurling me into an orgasm so violent it momentarily obliterates my vision. The claiming mark burns like fire and ecstasy combined, a permanent brand that will forever identify me as his property under Conquest law.

In the aftermath, as I lie trembling in his coils, something unusual happens. Scents I could barely detect before suddenly carry complex information. The botanical specimens surrounding us emit chemical signatures I now perceive as distinct auras, layered information that would require specialized equipment to detect under normal circumstances.

"What's happening to me?" I ask, voice barely audible as I stare at a nearby Ophidia lumina whose leaves now appear surrounded by a subtle turquoise haze indicating its medicinal properties.

"The venom enhances specific neurological functions," Nezzar explains, his coils shifting to a more comfortable arrangement while maintaining contact. His thumb traces the fresh claiming mark on my neck, the touch sending aftershocks of pleasure through my oversensitized system. "Compatible omegas develop sensory adaptations specific to their alpha's species. Your extraordinary response suggests rare genetic compatibility."

"You're altering my neurochemistry," I say, the horror competing with reluctant fascination. As a botanical researcher, I should be thrilled at suddenly perceiving plant chemical signatures visually. As a captured omega, I'm terrified by how thoroughly he's rewriting my biology.

"Not altering. Unlocking." His tongue flicks out, sampling the changes in my scent. "Your potential always existed, merely dormant without the appropriate catalyst."

The next wave crests before I can debate further, and we cycle again through claiming, release, and brief recovery. This pattern repeats with variations throughout what must be days, though without normal time markers, I can't be certain.

Sometimes he takes me suspended in his coils, my body floating as he claims me from below, his tail encircling my throat in possession display. Other times he secures my wrists above my head with a specialized coil, taking me against the living walls where vibrant flowering vines enhance the sensory overload. Once, he positions me beside one of the nutrient pools, my upper body submerged in the mineral-rich liquid while he claims me from behind, the contrasting sensations of cool water against my breasts and his burning invasion below creating pleasure so intense I momentarily lose consciousness.

His tail becomes an instrument of exquisite torture, sometimes circling my sensitive bud to unbearable heights while his cocks fill me, other times gliding between my lips, forcing my submission in multiple ways simultaneously. I learn to accommodate it as it explores my mouth, my body mastering another form of pleasing my alpha without conscious instruction.

During one lucid interval, when my heat temporarily subsides enough for coherent thought, I finally ask the question that's been haunting me since my capture.

"Why keep me here?" I manage, my voice raw from crying his name during our previous claiming. "Why not send me to the breeding facilities like other unregistered omegas?"

We're resting near one of the mineral pools, my body partially submerged in the nutrient-rich water that soothes heat-strained muscles. Nezzar's coils encircle the pool's edge, his upper body more humanoid currently, scales receded to patches along his shoulders and spine. My newly marked claiming bite throbs at my neck, a constant reminder of my altered status.

"Your understanding of botanical compounds is too valuable to waste on random breeding assignments," he answers, golden eyes studying me with that unsettling combination of possession and scientific interest. "You've clearly been synthesizing your own suppressants, which demonstrates exceptional chemical knowledge. Such abilities should be directed properly, not diluted through generalized breeding programs."

His fingers trace my claiming mark, the contact sending unwanted pleasure spiraling through me. "You are mine now. My omega, my scientist, my breeder. All aspects of your nature utilized appropriately."

"I'm not yours," I respond reflexively, though the protest sounds hollow even to my own ears. My body bears evidence contradicting my words—his scent embedded in my skin, his venom circulating in my bloodstream, his essence settled deep within me, his bite permanently marked upon my neck.

His smile reveals too-sharp teeth, tongue flicking out to sample my conflicted emotions in the air between us. "Your mind may continue to resist, but your biology has already accepted the truth. The claiming nears completion."

Before I can formulate a retort, another wave of heat surges through me—weaker than previous ones, signaling the approaching conclusion of this cycle. My vision briefly blurs, then sharpens with that now-familiar enhancement that lets me perceive chemical signatures as auras surrounding the plants. More disturbing is how instinctively I turn toward Nezzar, my body seeking his specific biochemistry with the precision of an addict locating their substance of dependence.

"Please," I whisper, hating the need in my voice but unable to suppress it as my inner walls contract around emptiness that only his particular anatomy can satisfy. I spread my thighs without conscious intention, presenting myself for his use yet again. "I need you inside me."

"I know," he responds, scales rippling across his body as he transitions back to claiming form. "And that, little scientist, is the first truth of your new existence."

As he positions me for another claiming, his coils wrapping around my thighs and lifting me effortlessly into the air, I realize with terrifying clarity that he's right. Five years of careful chemical deception have been undone in three days of biological reprogramming. Whatever escape I eventually find—if any exists—will never be complete. Part of me will always crave the venom now encoded in my neural pathways, the pleasure only his inhuman form can provide, the specific sensation of his coils around my limbs and his twin organs stretching me beyond human capacity.

I am not who I was before he caught me among the toxic blooms. And I never will be again.