Page 39 of Naga's Mate

The hesitation in his normally confident voice reveals vulnerability I never expected from him. As if he's feeling his way through unfamiliar territory, same as me.

"And if I never choose it?" I ask quietly.

"Then medical venom will continue preventing withdrawal symptoms until your system completes adaptation. Eventually, dependency will fade."

"And then?"

His eyes meet mine with unexpected warmth. "Then you stay here as my research partner rather than claimed omega."

This can't be real. There must be some angle I'm missing. "Conquest Law wouldn't allow an unclaimed omega to remain independent."

"Administrative details are manageable," he says with a dismissive flick of his tail. "Your research value provides sufficient justification for special status."

I turn away, needing space to process what this means. Freedom within boundaries. Choice within parameters that remain fundamentally limited.

"I need time," I whisper.

"Yes." Simple acceptance where I expected persuasion. "Time to make a genuine choice."

That night, alone in my sleeping chamber, I stare at the ceiling and face the truth I've been avoiding: I miss him. Not just the venom-pleasure, but the connection we had. The awareness that flowed between us without words. The feeling of being truly seen in a way no one else has managed.

I miss the weight of his coils around me at night, the security they provided even while I was captive. I miss the bond that let us understand each other without speaking. I even miss the moments when he claimed me completely, which somehow grew into something more complex than simple domination.

What does that make me? Stockholm syndrome victim? Addict missing her drug? Or something else—something psychology doesn't have a name for yet?

The next morning, I find Nezzar already working in the lab. He's arranged new specimens—rare flowering plants from the deepest greenhouse sections, species I've never been granted access to before.

"These may provide additional stabilization compounds for the hybrid cell research," he explains, not mentioning our conversation from last night. Offering neutral scientific territory where we can work together without addressing the emotional complexity between us.

We work side by side throughout the day, maintaining physical distance while our research creates bridges between different perceptual worlds. His chemosensory abilities complement my analytical approach. My pattern recognition balances his instinct-driven assessment. Together, we develop methodology neither species could create alone.

When I accidentally brush against his scales while reaching for equipment, electricity rushes through me—a reminder that our connection hasn't completely vanished, despite everything the resistance did to break it.

Nezzar freezes momentarily, his reaction suggesting he felt it too. Then he continues as if nothing happened, maintaining the careful space between us.

By evening, fatigue overtakes me. The emotional weight beneath my scientific focus has depleted my energy reserves. I sway slightly, grabbing the lab counter for support.

Nezzar moves with impossible speed, somehow steadying me without actually touching me. "You've exceeded your limits today," he says, concern evident in his voice.

"I'm fine," I insist stubbornly.

"Your readings suggest otherwise." He gestures toward the monitoring band I still wear. "Your system needs rest."

I don't have the energy to argue. Instead, I let him guide me toward my sleeping chamber, his powerful form near enough to catch me if needed but never quite making contact.

At the doorway between lab and sleeping space, I pause. The question forms before I can stop it.

"Would you stay?" I ask softly. "Not for claiming, just... close by."

It's more honest than saying the medical venom works better with proximity, though that's also true. What I'm really asking for is something I don't fully understand myself—comfort I never admitted needing until it vanished.

Nezzar studies me, pupils widening slightly. "If that's what you want," he says, his careful tone belied by the subtle ripple of scales that betrays emotion.

That night, though physical separation remains, something shifts between us. His coils arrange themselves on the floor beside my sleeping platform, close enough that I feel warmth radiating from him, sense the rhythm of his breathing.

As sleep approaches, I realize "choice" means something different in this strange space we've created. My options remain limited by Conquest reality and omega biology, yet somehow, being able to ask for his presence instead of having it imposed creates room for something new to grow.

Something without a proper name. Something that might build on a foundation different from our beginning.

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