Page 18 of Warlord’s Prize

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.

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