Page 24 of Naga's Mate

His gaze drops meaningfully to my abdomen before meeting mine again. "We can extract you," he whispers, constantly glancing toward the door. "We've developed compounds that might counteract the venom dependency. It won't be easy, but it's possible."

Hope flashes through me like summer lightning—escape from captivity, from the complex emotional tangle I've developed with my captor, from the biochemical bonds that chain me more effectively than any physical restraint. Three months ago, I would have seized this chance without question.

But now...

"How?" I ask, voice so soft even my enhanced hearing barely catches it.

"Three weeks from now. The security rotation has a vulnerability during shift change. We have specialized transport waiting." His fingers hover near mine, stopping just short of contact. "The compounds will be painful—withdrawal always is—but they'll purge your system of naga influence. We can remove all trace of contamination," his gaze drops deliberately to my abdomen, "and return you to who you were before."

The clinical euphemism strikes me with unexpected force.Remove all trace of contamination.The sterile words for terminating the pregnancy cut through my scientific detachment with unexpected sharpness.

My hands move instinctively to protect my abdomen—a gesture I didn't consciously initiate. The hybrid child growing inside me represents captivity, yes—but also something scientifically extraordinary. The embryo displays developmental patterns that could revolutionize our understanding of interspecies compatibility, adaptations neither humans nor nagas exhibit independently.

But it's not just academic fascination making me hesitate. Something primal and fierce rises at the thought of anyone threatening this life joined with mine. A protective instinct I never anticipated feeling for a child conceived through captivity.

"Malcolm," I begin, uncertain what I'm even going to say, when the door glides open.

Nezzar fills the entrance, his powerful form suddenly seeming more imposing than before. Though his expression remains controlled, the way his scales shimmer with barely-contained tension tells me everything—his heightened senses have detected something wrong. The subtle change in his posture and the tightening of his powerful coils against the floor signals suspicion more clearly than words could.

"The security matter is resolved," he announces, golden eyes shifting between Reed and me with calculated assessment. "We should continue with the project parameters."

Reed withdraws, professional mask returning with practiced ease. "Of course. I was just discussing some historical research context with Dr. Wilson."

The remainder of the consultation unfolds in excruciating tension. I force myself to concentrate on technical details, contributing appropriately while carefully avoiding meaningful eye contact with Reed. Throughout the meeting, Nezzar's awareness of me feels almost tangible—his coils occasionally brushing against me in what appears casual but communicates unmistakable possession.

When Reed finally departs, escorted by the same guards who brought him, the silence between Nezzar and me stretches taut as wire. I busy myself organizing research notes, feigning absorption that might delay the inevitable confrontation.

It doesn't work.

"He is resistance," Nezzar states rather than asks, his powerful lower body sliding across the chamber floor to create a loose perimeter around me. Not restraining yet, but establishing boundaries. "And he offered you extraction."

I consider lying, but what's the point? His chemosensory abilities would detect deception instantly. My silence confirms his suspicion as effectively as any words.

His hand reaches out, resting possessively over the slight curve of my abdomen. The gentle pressure contrasts with the intensity in his vertical-pupiled gaze. "Did you accept?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with implications beyond its simplicity. Three months ago, my answer would have been immediate. Now, I find myself caught in emotional crosscurrents I never saw approaching.

"I didn't give him an answer," I reply truthfully, watching his pupils contract to narrow slits.

His coils shift slightly closer, not painfully but with unmistakable intent. "Would you leave?" he asks, and something in his voice carries an emotion I can't quite identify. "Knowing what would happen to our offspring?"

The directness strips away my ability to evade. "He said they have compounds that counteract venom dependency."

"And the child?" His scaled hand presses more firmly against my abdomen. "What did he propose for our developing hybrid?"

I swallow hard, finding the euphemism suddenly impossible to repeat. "He referred to it as 'contamination' to be purged," I admit, the words acrid on my tongue.

Something flickers in Nezzar's expression—a flash of what might almost be hurt before cold anger replaces it. "Typical resistance philosophy. Hybrids represent successful integration, a future they cannot accept."

His coils shift closer, not aggressive but protective, forming barriers between me and the exterior walls as if Reed might reappear at any moment. "You didn't answer my question," he presses. "Would you choose that path? Destruction of what we've created together, just to return to what you were?"

The question lands with physical weight. Would I? Three months ago, without hesitation. Now...now I'm uncertain. The scientist in me recoils at destroying a unique biological specimen. The woman in me flinches at terminating a pregnancy I've begun monitoring with almost maternal interest. And some other part—some part I refuse to name—balks at the thought of never seeing Nezzar again.

Stockholm syndrome in perfect form? Or something more complex?

"I don't know," I whisper, the most honest answer possible.

To my surprise, Nezzar doesn't punish this ambivalence. Instead, his coils relax slightly, though they remain protectively positioned. "You require time," he says, voice unexpectedly gentle. "Time and security."

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