Page 40 of Naga's Mate

As consciousness fades, my hand reaches toward his nearest coil—not touching, but close enough to feel the energy between us. My last clear thought carries a simple truth: whatever exists between Nezzar and me has never fit standard definitions.

Maybe it's time to stop trying to label it and just let it become whatever it's meant to be.

CHAPTER20

AWAKENING DESIRE

Heat comesfor me like a predator in the night—silent, vicious, and absolutely fucking inevitable.

The first sign is almost gentle: a prickling beneath my skin like thousands of tiny needles pressing from within. Then my core temperature spikes so suddenly I nearly drop the molecular analyzer I've been working with for the past three hours. Perspiration forms along my spine, trickling downward in a slow, maddening path.

Six weeks after my failed extraction, and my body decides now is the perfect time for complete biological rebellion. Because of course it does. The universe has a special kind of cruelty reserved for omega botanists who dare to think they've reclaimed some semblance of control over their lives.

"Shit," I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool surface of the laboratory counter. The metal feels divine against my feverish skin, like pressing my face to an ice sculpture. But the relief lasts only moments before even that sensation transforms into something unbearable—a stimulation so intense it borders on pain.

Without suppressants or recent pregnancy to delay it, my treacherous body is returning to normal omega patterns with a vengeance. Worse, the months of chemical interference—suppressants, venom addiction, pregnancy, extraction purging—have created a perfect storm in my endocrine system. Like a coiled spring compressed beyond its limits, now releasing with catastrophic force.

I try cataloging my symptoms with scientific detachment: elevated temperature (1.8 degrees above baseline), hypersensitivity (fabric against skin registers as abrasive), emotional instability (frustration threatens to spill into tears over a simple molecular miscalculation). Textbook pre-heat indicators, but amplified to nightmare levels.

The door to the laboratory slides open with that whisper-hiss that's become as familiar as my own heartbeat. I don't need to look up to know it's Nezzar—my body recognizes his molecular signature before my conscious mind registers his presence. My scent glands activate instantly, broadcasting pheromones with humiliating eagerness, dampness forming between my thighs in mortifying anticipation.

"Your scent has changed," he observes, voice deceptively soft for a creature who could crush me without effort.

I keep my back to him, hunched over my research as if fascination with molecular structures might somehow override the biological hurricane building inside me. "I'm fine."

His laugh is low, resonant—a sound that sends fresh moisture gathering at my core. "Lies don't become you, little scientist. Your heat scent could wake the dead. I can detect your readiness from here."

When I finally turn to face him, the sight nearly buckles my knees. His pupils have contracted to vertical slits, golden irises burning with predatory focus. His tongue darts out repeatedly, sampling my escalating pheromones in the air between us. Most telling are his lower coils—the way they shift restlessly against the floor, patterns betraying the instinctive alpha response he's clearly fighting to control.

Yet he maintains the restraint he's demonstrated since my return. Despite the biological imperative I can practically see pulsing beneath his scales, he keeps his distance. Conquest Law would permit him to claim me instantly—heat-driven omegas have no legal right to refuse. Yet he remains motionless, watching me with an intensity that burns hotter than my rising fever.

"Medical intervention is available if you wish to suppress it," he offers, the words emerging rougher than his usual precise diction.

The situation creates a critical decision point I can no longer avoid. Chemical suppression or biological submission. The choice he promised becoming unavoidably, terrifyingly immediate.

"How effective would suppression be?" I manage, clinging to scientific inquiry like a lifeline in churning waters.

"Given your current condition? Marginally at best." His honesty cuts deeper than false reassurance would have. "Your system has undergone significant chemical trauma. Further suppression risks permanent endocrine damage."

Of-fucking-course it does. The universe just loves its little ironies, doesn't it?

For three days, I attempt the impossible—working through preliminary heat symptoms as if sheer stubbornness might override millions of years of evolutionary biology. Nezzar provides medical-grade venom to prevent withdrawal while carefully avoiding any claiming behavior. I adjust environmental controls to combat my rising body temperature. We maintain professional distance while discussing research parameters that neither of us can fully focus on.

It's the most elaborate charade I've ever participated in, and it's doomed to spectacular, humiliating failure.

By the third evening, my heat has progressed beyond any hope of control. My skin burns like I've been immersed in acid, every nerve ending screaming for relief. The specialized sleep garments Nezzar provided feel like serrated metal against my hypersensitive flesh. Wetness gathers between my thighs with such abundance I've given up trying to stay dry, the sheets beneath me soaked through despite changing them twice already.

Worst of all is the emptiness. An ache so profound it transcends physical discomfort, becoming something closer to existential agony. My inner walls contract around nothing, muscles spasming with such violence I curl into myself, whimpering against the pain.

Through the wall, I hear Nezzar moving restlessly in his healing pool. The scents I'm producing must be torturing him—an alpha denied his biological imperative, forced to resist claiming an omega in full-blown heat just meters away. The restraint he's showing defies everything I've been taught about naga alphas and their instincts.

And suddenly, with perfect clarity cutting through the hormonal chaos, I understand what I need to do.

Not because of biology alone. Not because of addiction. Not because of circumstances beyond my control.

But because I choose it.

The distinction hits me with seismic force—the difference between forced submission and conscious surrender. Between coercion and consent. Between having something done to me and actively deciding to do it myself.

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