Page 6 of Naga's Mate

I want to argue, to continue insisting my willpower can overcome mere physiological responses, but my body chooses that precise moment to betray me entirely. A wave of heat unlike anything previously experienced crashes through me, liquefying my bones and drawing an involuntary sound from my throat—half gasp, half moan.

"Remarkable," Nezzar murmurs, amber eyes dilating as he interprets my involuntary responses with predatory precision. "Your suppressants must have been extraordinarily sophisticated to have contained such potent omega biology. The heat backlash will be correspondingly intense."

My scientific mind comprehends immediately what he means. Five years of chemical suppression has created perfect conditions for biological revolt—my physiology now overcompensating with accelerated heat development. What should progress over twenty-four to forty-eight hours might compress into mere hours. The implication terrifies me more than the physical restraint of his coils.

"Please," I repeat, detesting how the word increasingly resembles begging. "I have emergency suppressants in my lab. Just allow me to administer them, and we can discuss alternative arrangements. I can continue my research under supervision. I can?—"

"Continue deceiving us?" Nezzar interrupts, his coils tightening fractionally around me. Not painful, but an unmistakable reminder of my complete powerlessness. "Continue violating Conquest Law by concealing your true designation? That option no longer exists, Dr. Wilson."

The use of my professional title momentarily disorients me. How much information does he possess about me? How long has he harbored suspicions?

"You're aware of my position," I state cautiously.

"I'm aware of your contributions to botanical research," he confirms, shifting his massive form to begin transporting us away from the experimental section. His coils maintain their grip around me, but now he's moving me—destination unknown, and that uncertainty triggers fresh panic through my system. "I'm also aware those contributions came from an unregistered omega illegally suppressing her nature. Both facts inform my decision regarding your disposition."

"Decision?" I echo, cold dread forming despite the heat flooding my system. "You've already determined what happens to me?"

His vertical pupils fix on me with disconcerting focus. "Under standard protocol, unregistered omegas—particularly those employing illegal suppressants—are immediately transferred to breeding facilities. Their deception forfeits their right to individual claiming."

The breeding facilities. Sterile, clinical environments where unclaimed omegas are assigned to compatible alphas based on genetic algorithms. Where heats are chemically induced and maintained at artificial levels ensuring constant fertility. Where offspring are removed immediately after birth for specialized nurseries while omega parents continue the breeding cycle.

My worst nightmare, precisely articulated.

"But you're not following standard protocol," I observe, grasping at the implication in his statement. "Otherwise, we'd be proceeding to processing, not..." I glance around, trying to determine our destination as we move deeper into the greenhouse complex.

"Correct." His tongue samples the air again, detecting the increasingly sweet notes in my scent as my heat progresses despite mental resistance. "Your research is too valuable to waste on standardized breeding assignments. Your knowledge of botanical compounds, particularly those employed in suppressant formulation, indicates exceptional understanding of chemical interactions."

He pauses, amber eyes studying my expression with calculation that somehow frightens me more than simple alpha aggression would have. "Such expertise should be preserved, directed, utilized. Not diluted in a breeding facility's systematic approach."

Understanding crystallizes with sickening clarity. "You're claiming me yourself."

It's not a question, but he inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Your intellect belongs in a laboratory. Your omega biology requires proper alpha claiming. I can accommodate both requirements."

The dual nature of his assertion—recognizing my scientific value while simultaneously establishing ownership of my body—creates cognitive dissonance so profound I struggle forming a response. Part of me—the independent researcher who's survived five years through intelligence and chemical manipulation—rejects this absolutely. But horrifyingly, another part—the omega biology now emerging from chemical suppression—responds with treasonous interest.

"And if I refuse?" I manage, though we both recognize the emptiness of this question. Under Conquest Law, omegas possess no right to refuse claiming. Especially not unregistered omegas caught using prohibited suppressants.

"Then you demonstrate surprisingly poor analytical skills for someone of your scientific background," he replies, his coils adjusting their hold as we navigate through a section of the greenhouse I've never been authorized to enter. "This is not negotiation, Dr. Wilson. It is notification."

Another surge of heat pulses through me, drawing an involuntary whimper I cannot suppress. The intensity increases exponentially, confirming my fears. Without my carefully formulated suppressants, my body rushes headlong into what five years of chemistry held at bay.

We're moving deeper into restricted sections now, past security barriers that would have been impenetrable to me alone. The vegetation changes noticeably—more exotic specimens, many unfamiliar despite my extensive botanical knowledge. The humidity intensifies further, temperature rising to levels clearly optimized for naga physiology rather than human comfort.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, fighting to maintain vocal control as perspiration beads across my increasingly responsive skin.

"To my private territory," Nezzar responds, his melodious voice simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. "Where your claiming will proceed without interruption."

The clinical precision of his statement sends simultaneous waves of fear and—to my absolute self-disgust—arousal through my treacherous body. More moisture forms between my thighs, the scent of my advancing heat now unmistakable even to my dulled human senses. What must it register as to him, with chemosensory capabilities thousands of times more acute than mine?

We pass through a final security barrier—a massive door responding to some signal from Nezzar imperceptible to me—and enter a space unlike anything within the research complex. The chamber has cathedral-like proportions, its ceiling disappearing into misty heights. Living walls covered with meticulously cultivated plants surround pools of mineral-rich water bubbling gently, releasing scented vapor permeating everything.

This is not a laboratory. Not a security station. Not any official facility space I've encountered during my years of employment.

This is his lair. His nest. His claiming ground.

"Please," I attempt one final time as he uncoils enough to place me on my feet while maintaining restraining loops around my lower body. "There must be alternative arrangements. I'll register officially. I'll accept supervision. I'll?—"

"You'll be claimed," he interrupts, amber eyes now fully dilated with predatory focus. "As you should have been five years ago when your omega biology emerged. The only distinction is that your deception has earned you specialized claiming rather than processing through standard channels."

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