Page 8

CHAPTER 8

STRATEGIC ADVISOR

I sit stiffly at Kazuul's massive dining table, trying not to fidget as the scents of unfamiliar spices assault my nose. The food is always too rich here, too heavy with flavors that scream of oni preferences rather than human palates—meat barely seared, spices that burn the tongue, fruits fermented to a pungent tang. My fingers look child-sized wrapped around the goblet designed for hands three times my size.

Commander Thorne sits across from me, his bright orange skin almost glowing in the torchlight. The jagged edge of his broken horn catches the flame, casting strange shadows across the table. Unlike Kazuul's majestic curved horns, Thorne's single remaining one juts at an angle that speaks of violent combat. He hasn't stopped glaring at me since I arrived. Every time I shift in my seat, his golden eyes track the movement like I might bolt for the door any second.

Not that I haven't thought about it.

The chair beneath me is hard and uncomfortable, built for oni proportions with no consideration for human bodies. My back aches from trying to maintain proper posture, and my feet dangle stupidly above the floor. It's just one more way they remind me I don't belong here—that I am an ornament, a possession, not an equal participant.

"The northern sectors have reported increased movement near the border," Thorne says, pointedly turning his body away from me as he addresses Kazuul. His voice has that particular tone men use when they want to make it clear a woman isn't part of the conversation. "I've recommended doubling patrols along these routes."

A servant refills Kazuul's goblet with a dark liquid that smells strongly of fermentation. The warlord tears into a hunk of barely-cooked meat, blood dripping down his massive crimson fingers. My stomach turns at the sight, but I force my expression to remain neutral. Show no weakness.

"How many warriors will this require?" Kazuul's deep voice rumbles through the chamber, vibrating in my chest the way his growls do when he's claiming me. The memory sends an unwanted ripple of heat through my core.

"Twenty additional units, rotating in six-hour shifts," Thorne replies, unfolding a rough map across the table.

I lean forward despite myself, drawn to the tactical display like a moth to flame. The smell of the parchment mingles with the tang of iron-based ink. Military maps. God, I'd missed this. My eyes drink in the patrol routes marked in thick black lines, the terrain features, the strategic chokepoints. Something about the pattern bothers me—inefficiencies jumping out as clear as if they were highlighted in red.

My mind starts calculating alternatives automatically, fingers itching to rearrange the routes. Resource allocation was always my specialty, even before the military academy. It's like a puzzle where all the pieces need to fit just right.

"That's wasteful," I blurt out before my brain can stop my mouth. "You could cover the same area with half the warriors."

The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

Every muscle in my body tenses, waiting for the explosion. Thorne's golden eyes narrow to predatory slits, and my stomach drops to my knees as the reality of what I've just done hits me. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What made me think I could speak during a military discussion between oni commanders? I'm just the claimed omega here for the Warlord's pleasure. A warm body to knot, not a strategist to consult.

I brace for the blow, the rage, the punishment that surely comes from embarrassing a commander in front of his warlord. My heart hammers so hard against my ribs I'm sure they can hear it. The taste of fear floods my mouth, metallic and sharp.

Instead, I feel Kazuul's burning gaze turn toward me. The heat of his massive body radiates against my side as he shifts to face me directly. His head tilts slightly, the gesture reminding me uncomfortably of a predator assessing prey.

"Explain your reasoning," he commands, his massive hand suddenly pulling me against his side.

The movement is possessive—a clear reminder of who I belong to—but there's something else in the gesture I didn't expect. The way his clawed fingers curve around my shoulder seems almost... protective? Interested? The scent of his skin this close is overwhelming—smoke and metal and that distinctive musk that makes my traitor body respond against my will. Slick gathers between my thighs, my omega biology reacting to his proximity despite my mental rejection.

My throat feels dry as sand, but this is a test I can't afford to fail.

"These patrol routes overlap here, here, and here," I say, leaning forward to point at the map with a finger that trembles only slightly. The rough parchment feels reassuringly familiar under my fingertip. "You're creating redundancy in these sectors while leaving the eastern approach with gaps in coverage during shift changes. If you adjust the routes like this—" I trace new lines across the map, the familiar movement calming my nerves, "—and stagger the timing by two hours instead of four, you maintain complete surveillance with significantly reduced manpower."

Commander Thorne's scoff sounds like a knife being unsheathed. "And what would a human omega know about military patrol strategies?" The contempt in his voice drips like venom.

The dismissal in his tone stings, but it's so familiar—the same tone male officers used at the academy when I outperformed them in tactical simulations. I feel my spine straighten automatically, chin lifting in the same defiant posture that got me through four years of constant undermining.

"I attended military academy before the Conquest," I say, meeting his dismissive gaze directly. The words taste like dust and old memories. "Advanced tactical planning was my specialization."

I see surprise flicker across his orange features before he masks it. His broken horn seems to gleam more brightly in the torchlight as he leans forward, ready to argue. A muscle twitches in his jaw, his claws tapping against the table in irritation.

But Kazuul's rumbling voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "Show me these efficiencies in detail."

The command silences Thorne instantly. It also unlocks something in me—a door I'd closed when Haven Valley became my responsibility, when leadership required different skills than pure strategy.

I lose myself in the tactical explanation, muscle memory taking over as I outline patrol patterns, resource allocation, surveillance coverage. The words flow easily, technical terms I haven't used in years suddenly returning like old friends. My fingers move across the map with growing confidence, tracing sectors and chokepoints. For a few precious minutes, I'm not a claimed omega but a strategist again, my mind sharp and clear and purposeful.

"The current system wastes warrior strength on redundant coverage," I explain, the familiar rhythm of tactical assessment steadying my voice. "By staggering patrol times and adjusting routes, you maintain constant surveillance with forty percent fewer warriors. Those units could be redirected to your southern agricultural expansion without compromising northern security."

As I speak, I notice something shifting in Thorne's expression. The naked derision gives way to reluctant attention, then grudging assessment. His eyes follow my hands with increasing focus, his own clawed finger occasionally tapping the map where my explanations connect with his own expertise.

Kazuul studies the map when I finish, his massive finger tracing the routes I've suggested. The ridged nail leaves a faint scratch on the parchment. The silence stretches so long my confidence begins to waver. Have I overstepped completely? Will the punishment come now that I've fully revealed my presumption?

The heat of his body next to mine feels suddenly threatening rather than protective. I can smell my own anxiety rising like sour notes in my scent, and I know their oni senses can detect it too. My pulse flutters visibly at my throat, where I know his gaze occasionally lingers.

Finally, Kazuul looks at Thorne. "Implement these changes immediately."

The commander's jaw tightens visibly, the muscles along his orange neck tensing. But he nods stiffly. "As you command, Warlord."

"Leave us," Kazuul orders, and Thorne exits with barely concealed irritation, his single horn throwing strange shadows as he passes through the doorway.

Alone with the warlord, my momentary confidence evaporates like morning dew. The chamber suddenly feels too small, too intimate. The remains of dinner sit forgotten on the table, the smell of blood and meat hanging in the air.

What happens now? Will he punish me for embarrassing his commander? Or worse, reward me in the only way oni seem to understand—with physical claiming?

Kazuul's massive hand engulfs my shoulder completely, his clawed thumb resting dangerously close to my throat as he guides me from the dining room toward his sleeping chambers. The familiar path makes my treacherous body respond immediately—slick gathering between my thighs in humiliating anticipation. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive where he touches me, heat spreading outward from his fingers.

The short walk to his chambers gives me too much time to think and not enough time to prepare. The stone floor is cold beneath my bare feet, a sharp contrast to the burning heat of his hand on my shoulder. Torches cast our joined shadows against the wall—his massive form dwarfing mine, making me look like a child being led by a giant.

His sleeping chamber smells of him—that distinctive blend of smoke and metal that once repulsed me but now triggers an instant physical response I can't control. The massive bed dominates the room, furs piled high across its surface where I've been claimed countless times since my heat.

He sits on the edge of the enormous bed, the frame creaking even under his weight. His knees spread wide as he pulls me to stand between them, forcing me into the vulnerable position of looking up at him. Even seated, his massive form towers over me, his horns catching the torchlight.

"Your unusual background created omega unlike typical breeding stock," he observes, massive fingers leaving my shoulder to trace patterns along my bare arm. The gentle scrape of his claws raises goosebumps in their wake. "This pleases me more than anticipated."

I swallow hard, unsure how to respond. Is this a compliment? A threat? My skin tingles where he touches me, responding to his contact in ways I still can't prevent.

"You will attend future tactical meetings," he declares, his golden eyes studying my face with unsettling intensity. "Your mind proves useful beyond your breeding capacity."

Something flutters in my chest—a feeling I refuse to name. Pride? Relief at being valued for something other than my omega status? I squash the feeling immediately, grinding it under mental heel. This isn't validation; it's just another form of use. Another way to extract value from his property.

"Thank you, Warlord," I say, the formal title feeling strange on my tongue. I've avoided addressing him directly whenever possible, as if refusing to name him might maintain some small distance.

His expression shifts, something calculating entering his gaze. One massive finger traces the line of my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his eyes fully. The pad of his finger is surprisingly soft against my skin, the claw carefully held away from my flesh.

"You helped your community today," he says, voice rumbling through me like distant thunder. "Remember that when resistance tempts you."

The words hit like a physical blow. He knows. Of course he knows that everything I do, every concession I make, every strategy I share, is calculated to protect Haven Valley. The knowledge in his eyes tells me he's been several steps ahead of me this entire time.

Before I can process his words, he pulls me onto the bed, my body responding with embarrassing eagerness as he claims me once again. But this time is different. Rather than the brute force of previous claimings, his massive hands explore my body with deliberate patience. His claws trace patterns that make me shiver, drawing out reactions I don't want to give.

When his mouth finds my breast, the heat of his tongue against my nipple tears a gasp from my throat. The vibrating nodule against my clit is operated with deliberate precision rather than overwhelming force, building pleasure in steady waves rather than crashing tsunamis.

"Your strategic mind deserves strategic pleasure," he rumbles against my skin, his golden eyes watching my face as I fight not to respond.

But it's a battle I can't win. The careful application of that vibrating nodule, the ridges of his massive cock dragging against places inside me that send sparks shooting up my spine—it's too much. When the orgasm finally crashes through me, it's more intense for the slow build, tearing a cry from my throat that echoes off the stone walls.

Only then does he allow his own release, his knot swelling inside me as his seed floods my womb in hot pulses. Locked together by biology, I can't escape the intimacy of the moment, the way his massive body cradles mine almost gently, his rumbling purr of satisfaction vibrating through my chest.

As waves of unwanted pleasure continue to ripple through me, I wonder if this too is strategy—a different kind of battle where he's proving just as calculating as I am.

* * *

Three weeks later, I stand before another tactical table, this one covered with agricultural production charts rather than patrol maps. My suggestions about irrigation systems have increased crop yields by nearly thirty percent in the test sectors, and the oni administrators around me view me with considerably less hostility than before.

Commander Thorne still watches me with suspicion, but even he can't argue with the results of my patrol adjustments. The freed-up warriors successfully expanded the southern border by eight miles while maintaining complete security in the north.

I should feel triumph at being right, at proving my value beyond breeding stock. Instead, a hollow ache spreads through my chest as I realize what I've actually accomplished—strengthening the very system I once fought against. Every efficiency I create, every problem I solve, makes the oni occupation more successful, more sustainable.

But I can't stop. The strategic challenges draw me in despite myself, my mind lighting up with solutions and possibilities I haven't been allowed to explore in years. And each success means more security for Haven Valley, more food for my people, more protection from worse alternatives.

When my latest reorganization of storage facilities prevents significant losses during an unexpected storm, one of the senior administrators nods reluctantly in my direction. "The omega has unusual perspective," he admits grudgingly.

The acknowledgment should feel like victory. Instead, it tastes like ash.

Later, as Kazuul claims me in the now-familiar routine of our nights together, I face the most disturbing evidence of my changing reality. My body no longer fights his invasive size but welcomes it, slick flowing freely as his massive cock stretches me beyond what I once thought possible. The pain that dominated our early couplings has transformed into something else—a fullness that my omega biology craves with embarrassing eagerness.

His claiming has evolved as well. He's learned my body with disturbing precision, his massive hands finding places that make me gasp, his mouth leaving marks across my skin that fade but never fully disappear before he refreshes them. The vibrating nodule that once felt like such violation now creates pleasure so intense it borders on pain, my body arching toward it rather than away.

"Your scent changes when you think of our matings," he comments one evening, his nostrils flaring as he studies me across his private chambers. "Your body speaks truth your words deny."

I look away, shame burning my cheeks hot. "My body isn't me."

"Isn't it?" he asks, massive hand tilting my face back toward him with surprising gentleness. "The mind commands, but flesh remembers what truly satisfies."

His words dig into the growing gap between my principles and my physical responses. Most humiliating is my growing dependency on the pleasure his vibrating nodule provides—the way my core clenches in anticipation when he reaches for me, knowing the intense orgasms that await. I catch myself thinking about it at odd moments—during administrative meetings, while eating meals, as I bathe.

That night, he claims me with unusual patience, positioning me on my side, his massive body curled around mine from behind. This new angle allows him to reach deeper than ever before, the vibrating nodule finding new places to stimulate that make me shake with unwanted pleasure.

I fight my response as long as possible, determined to maintain some shred of mental resistance even as my body surrenders completely. One massive hand cradles my breast, thumb circling my nipple with surprising delicacy for something so large. His other hand grips my hip, holding me in place as he moves within me in slow, deep thrusts that hit places that make stars explode behind my eyelids.

When release finally comes, it tears through me with such intensity that tears leak from my eyes, my back arching against his chest as my entire body convulses with pleasure I never wanted to feel.

"Why fight what brings such pleasure?" he asks afterward, massive fingers wiping moisture from my cheeks with surprising tenderness.

I have no answer that makes sense anymore.

The next morning, I limp slightly as I enter the omega garden, muscles sore from the night's activities. Vora sits on her usual bench, the morning sun highlighting the intricate scarification patterns across her arms. Her knowing eyes take in my careful movements, the slight wince as I lower myself beside her.

"The strategic advisor returns," she says, a hint of something unreadable in her tone.

"Is that what they're calling me?"

"Among other things." She doesn't elaborate, but I can imagine the whispers—the claimed omega who thinks she's more than breeding stock, the human female presuming to advise oni warriors.

Her scarred fingers close over mine, surprisingly strong for someone so petite. "Every improvement you create changes not just the outcome but the system itself," she says quietly. "Perhaps you're reshaping your chains rather than simply reinforcing them."

I consider her words as I leave the garden, my mind already mapping approaches to the grain storage problem Kazuul mentioned yesterday. The distinction feels important—am I collaborating or infiltrating? Surrendering or adapting?

The line between resistance and survival has never felt so blurry.