Page 8 of Naga’s Mate (Prime Omegaverse #2)
CHAPTER 7
LABORATORY PRIVILEGES
A week of captivity passes with unsettling ease. My body accommodates Nezzar's claiming—now a daily occurrence since my heat subsided—with an eagerness that fills me with shame. The venom dependency isn't merely psychological; it's etched into my nervous system, a biochemical addiction more potent than any substance I've ever studied. Each evening when his muscular length enfolds me, my flesh responds before my mind can even formulate protest.
Seven days in this new existence, and already my former life seems more dreamlike than real.
I've dedicated my waking hours to mapping my prison, learning its patterns, probing its boundaries. The quarters represent a masterpiece of environmental design—self-sustaining ecological systems nested within larger ones, precise temperature and humidity gradients that accommodate both naga physiology and human tolerance. Under different circumstances, I would be captivated. Under these, I search desperately for vulnerabilities to exploit.
There are none. At least, none within my detection capabilities.
This morning begins like the others—awakening within Nezzar's loose coils, his scales cool against my skin despite the tropical warmth of our chambers. I've been provided with simple garments suited to the elevated temperatures, though he still prefers me unclothed during our nightly encounters. Another small "allowance" that feels more like psychological manipulation than mercy.
"You're growing restless," Nezzar observes as I disentangle myself from his coils. His tongue samples the air between us, tasting my emotional state. "Your mind requires stimulation beyond these quarters."
I remain silent. What response could I offer? That I miss my research? That I crave purpose beyond serving as his personal breeding vessel? That I lie awake calculating increasingly improbable escape scenarios?
He rises to his full height—all seven imposing feet of his humanoid torso, not counting the massive serpentine body below—and examines me with those disquieting amber eyes. "Come. I have something to show you."
My venom-enhanced senses immediately detect the shift in his pheromones—not desire or dominance, but something I'm beginning to recognize as anticipation. Curious despite myself, I follow as he guides me toward a section of the chambers we haven't explored. The living wall here differs from the others—densely populated with specimens that appear arranged with scientific methodology rather than aesthetic consideration.
"Botanical classification patterns," I murmur, recognizing the organizational system despite myself. "Medicinal properties sequenced by compound potency."
"You perceive it," he says, sounding almost pleased. "Few would identify the pattern."
"I'm a botanist," I remind him, hating how easily I slip into conversation despite my captivity. "Or I was, before..."
"Before I claimed you?" he completes, his melodious voice expressing neither cruelty nor apology. "You remain a botanist, Lyra. Your mind belongs to you, even if your body belongs to me under Conquest law."
My name in his mouth still startles me. He rarely uses it, preferring possessive terms—"my omega," "little scientist," "mine." Hearing my actual name feels strangely intimate, somehow more invasive than the claiming itself.
He presses his scaled palm against a section of the wall that appears identical to the surrounding area. The plants shift and retract, revealing a concealed entrance I never would have detected without seeing it activated. Beyond lies something I never expected to find in a naga's private domain.
A laboratory. Not just any laboratory, but one equipped with advanced botanical research technologies I've only encountered in restricted files. Specialized analysis equipment. Cultivation chambers for volatile specimens. Molecular imaging systems worth more than most humans earn in decades.
"What is this?" I whisper, unable to conceal my astonishment.
"Your new workspace," Nezzar replies simply, monitoring my reaction with those predatory eyes. "Your intellect remains valuable beyond your heat cycles. Continue your research under my supervision."
I step inside, professional instinct overriding caution as I survey the equipment. My fingers trace surfaces that would have been forbidden in my previous position. A molecular spectrometer calibrated specifically for botanical compounds. A cultivation chamber designed for specimens too toxic for direct human handling. Analysis systems that could process chemical structures in hours instead of weeks.
"This is... extensive," I manage, scientific wonder competing with suspicion. "Why provide this?"
"Consider it mutual advantage," he says, his length gliding smoothly across the specially designed floor. "Your research abilities are wasted if applied only to suppressant creation. Here, you can explore genuine botanical advancement while remaining where you belong."
The limitation becomes immediately obvious as I examine the space. The laboratory connects only to his quarters, with no independent exit. Any work I conduct will be monitored, and I remain his claimed property in all ways that matter under Conquest law. A longer tether, but a tether nonetheless.
"What would I even study?" I ask, my fingers itching despite myself to touch the equipment, to lose myself in the work that defined my identity before capture.
"Whatever captures your interest," he responds with a casual gesture, "within reasonable parameters. Your previous focus on medicinal compounds seems a natural continuation."
I narrow my eyes, suspicion displacing wonder. "And my suppressant research? I assume that's forbidden."
His scales ripple slightly—a naga expression I'm beginning to recognize as amusement. "You no longer require suppressants, little scientist. But should you reference your previous work, I would be... curious to examine your methodology. Few humans have achieved such effective formulations."
Of course. He wants my resistance contacts, my suppressant formulas, everything I've dedicated years to developing to help omegas avoid exactly the fate I now endure. I turn away, disgust replacing my momentary scientific excitement.
"You want me to betray everything I've worked for."
"I want you to continue working," he corrects, approaching a specialized containment unit at the far end of the laboratory. "Your focus simply requires adjustment."
He activates the unit, revealing something that immediately recaptures my attention despite my resistance. Inside rests a species I've only glimpsed in classified research files—a night-blooming Ophidia luminara , previously too toxic for humans to study closely. Its phosphorescent petals emit a gentle radiance that pulses with its respiratory cycle, while the chemical signatures I can now perceive thanks to the venom enhancement appear as complex auras surrounding each bloom.
"This specimen has resisted traditional analysis," Nezzar explains, observing my undisguised fascination with those predatory eyes. "Its medicinal properties remain theoretical rather than verified. Perhaps your... unique perspective might yield results where others have failed."
My pulse quickens with scientific excitement I can't suppress. The Ophidia luminara is rumored to contain compounds that could revolutionize neurological treatments if successfully isolated. Research restrictions have prevented thorough study by human scientists, and its extreme toxicity means only nagas can handle it directly.
But with my venom-enhanced perception...
I catch myself, horrified at how easily I'm being manipulated. "You seek to distract me with interesting specimens while I remain your captive."
"I seek to utilize your abilities while providing purpose beyond breeding," he counters smoothly. "Unless you prefer idleness between heat cycles? That can be arranged."
The threat isn't explicit, but it doesn't need to be. Without work, without purpose, I'll have nothing but endless days of waiting for my next heat, with only claiming to break the monotony. My mind would fracture under such conditions, and we both recognize this reality.
"May I?" I ask, hating myself for the request but unable to resist the scientific opportunity before me.
He gestures permission, and I approach the containment unit. With careful precision, I activate the analysis probe that allows examination without direct contact. The readouts confirm what my enhanced senses already detected—complex chemical structures unlike anything in standard botanical databases.
"The venom adaptation has permanently altered your perception," Nezzar observes as I study the specimen. "You can visualize chemical signatures invisible to unmodified humans, can't you?"
I hesitate, reluctant to share anything that might reveal the full extent of my physiological changes. "Things appear... different."
"Describe it," he presses, moving closer until his scales brush against my arm, sending unwanted awareness through my nervous system.
"Auras," I finally admit, seeing no reason to hide what he clearly already suspects. "Chemical signatures manifest as colored halos around active compounds. The intensity corresponds with potency."
Rather than responding immediately, Nezzar retrieves a second specimen from another containment unit—this one a common medicinal herb used in basic remedies.
"And this?" he asks, placing it beside the exotic bloom.
"Unremarkable," I reply automatically. "Basic anti-inflammatory compounds, mild analgesic properties. The aura appears pale green, barely perceptible."
His expression shifts to something I can't quite interpret—satisfaction mingled with scientific interest. "Fascinating. Your adaptation exceeds expectations. Most claimed omegas develop enhanced scent perception, but visual detection of chemical structures is exceptionally rare."
Reluctantly, I ask the question that's troubled me since my heat concluded. "Is this... permanent?"
"The venom creates irreversible neural changes in compatible omegas," he explains, examining me with that unsettling combination of scientific curiosity and possessive satisfaction. "Your uncommonly strong reaction suggests genetic predisposition toward adaptation. The changes will not only persist but likely intensify with continued exposure."
Rather than feeling disturbed by this information as I should, the scientist in me finds it fascinating despite my continued resentment of my captivity. The implications for research are profound—direct visual perception of chemical structures could transform botanical medicine.
"You're not horrified," Nezzar observes, tongue sampling my emotional response in the air. "You find it intriguing."
"The scientist in me does," I admit reluctantly. "The woman in me fears becoming something other than human."
"Not other than human," he corrects, one scaled hand lightly touching my shoulder in a possessive gesture that sends unwanted warmth through my body. "Enhanced human. Evolution accelerated through biochemical intervention."
For the remainder of the day, I immerse myself in preliminary analysis of the specimens. Despite everything, the work provides welcome distraction from my circumstances. My enhanced senses reveal patterns in the Ophidia luminara 's structure that would be invisible to standard human perception—chemical pathways suggesting applications beyond anything previously documented.
Nezzar observes my work with genuine interest, occasionally offering insights from naga botanical knowledge humans have never been granted access to. His understanding of chemical interactions surpasses anything I've encountered in human research literature, suggesting depths of scientific knowledge that contradict the primitive image nagas cultivate among humans.
"The sequential binding pattern indicates neurotransmitter interaction," I note, momentarily forgetting my circumstances as scientific discovery takes precedence over personal trauma.
"Indeed, but observe the secondary pathway," Nezzar responds, his coils shifting closer as he indicates a subtle pattern I hadn't immediately noticed. "The compound bifurcates under specific pH conditions."
He's right, I realize with reluctant admiration. The observation reveals complexity I might have missed despite my enhanced perception.
As evening approaches, I've compiled preliminary data that would have required weeks using standard research protocols. The efficiency is intoxicating, almost as addictive as the venom itself. When Nezzar finally suggests we return to the main chamber for the evening meal, I'm surprised to feel genuine reluctance to leave the work.
"You may continue tomorrow," he says, clearly reading my disappointment. "The laboratory remains accessible during daylight hours, provided you adhere to safety protocols."
"Thank you," I respond automatically, then freeze, horrified at expressing gratitude to my captor for "allowing" me to work.
His scales ripple with that now-familiar expression of amusement. "Your mind requires stimulation, little scientist. I see no reason to deny what benefits us both."
As we exit the laboratory, the concealed door sealing seamlessly behind us, I recognize the dangerous path I've entered. The work provides meaningful distraction—perhaps too meaningful. How easily I could lose myself in research, focusing on scientific discovery while ignoring the reality of my captivity. Finding purpose within constraints rather than fighting against them.
Stockholm syndrome begins with small mercies, with moments where captivity feels less like imprisonment and more like an alternative existence. Today marked such a shift—subtle but significant.
Later, as Nezzar's coils encircle me in our sleeping bower, his claiming combines the now-familiar venom pleasure with something new—intellectual stimulation that leaves me confused about my own responses. My body yields as it has each night since my capture, but my mind remains caught between resistance and fascination.
"You're overthinking," Nezzar murmurs against my claiming mark, his tongue tracing the permanent scar his teeth left during my heat.
"I'm always overthinking," I respond, surprising myself with the candor. "It's fundamental to who I am."
"It's who we both are," he counters, his coils tightening just enough to remind me of his overwhelming physical dominance. "Perhaps that explains why we're well-matched, little scientist."
I want to protest that we aren't matched at all—that what exists between us is captivity, not compatibility. But as his venom enters my system again, creating that now-familiar cascade of pleasure and heightened perception, I find myself wondering which aspects of my changing biology represent chemical manipulation and which might be something more disturbing—genuine adaptation to my new reality.
The question follows me into uneasy dreams, where botanical research and serpentine claiming intertwine in patterns too complex for my conscious mind to untangle.