Page 62 of Warlord’s Prize

"As you are mine," I respond, turning to face him.

His golden eyes gleam with satisfaction at my words, vertical pupils dilating slightly in the shadow of the balcony. One massive hand slides to cup my face, thumb tracing along my jawline with careful gentleness that belies his overwhelming strength.

"Come," he says, not a command but an invitation. "The child requires rest, and you've been standing too long."

I know where this leads—to our sleeping chambers, to the massive bed built to accommodate his enormous frame. My body flushes with anticipation, slick gathering between my thighs at just the thought. The pregnancy has only heightened my responsiveness to him, sensitivity increased tenfold by changing hormones.

As he leads me from the balcony, my hand slides into his without hesitation. This willing participation—this eager response to what once represented my captivity—marks my final transformation more clearly than any title or position could.

From strategic sacrifice to willing partner. From captive omega to honored consort. From resistance fighter to territorial administrator. From unwilling breeding vessel to mother choosing to carry this child.

The corridors of the fortress feel different now—no longer prison walls but foundations supporting what we've built together. Servants and officials nod respectfully as we pass, acknowledging both his authority and my position at his side. The massive stone hallways that once intimidated with their alien proportions now feel like an extension of home.

Our chambers have transformed too—no longer just his space where I was kept, but ours, filled with evidence of shared life. Maps and strategic plans spread across tables, documentation of governance improvements alongside traditional oni weapons and ceremonial items. Books from both cultures share shelf space, physical manifestation of the bridge we've constructed between worlds.

When the door closes behind us, Kazuul's posture shifts subtly—the public warlord giving way to the private mate. His hand finds the claiming mark again, tracing it with deliberate intent that sends shivers down my spine.

"You've been working too hard," he says, guiding me toward the bed with gentle insistence. "The medical officers recommend more rest at this stage."

"I'm perfectly fine," I protest, even as I allow him to help me settle against the pillows. "Pregnancy isn't an illness."

His rumbling laugh vibrates through the air between us. "Stubbornness remains your defining trait, little omega."

The term that once felt like deliberate diminishment now carries affectionate recognition. I am smaller than him—always will be—but no less essential to what we've built together.

He stretches out beside me, massive body carefully arranged to avoid putting pressure on my swollen belly. One hand returns to the claiming mark, fingers tracing the raised tissue with careful attention that sends immediate heat pooling between my thighs.

"Your scent changes when I touch you here," he murmurs, golden eyes tracking the flush spreading across my skin. "Sweetens with arousal even after all this time."

"You know exactly what you're doing," I accuse without heat, shifting restlessly against the bedding.

His slow smile reveals those slightly pointed teeth. "Of course. I've had considerable practice learning your body's responses."

His fingers trace lower, sliding along my collarbone, down to cup the fullness of my breast through the thin fabric of my dress. My nipples tighten instantly, sensitivity increased by the pregnancy until even the slightest touch borders on painful pleasure.

"So responsive," he approves, thumb circling carefully around the hardened peak without directly touching the hypersensitive tip. "Your body knows what it needs."

"What it needs is you," I admit, beyond pretending otherwise. The bond between us pulses with shared desire, my arousal feeding his in endless loop through the claiming connection.

With careful movements, he helps me undress, the fine fabrics falling away to reveal my changed body. Where once I might have felt vulnerable beneath his gaze, now I watch with satisfaction as his pupils dilate at the sight of me—rounded with his child, skin flushed with desire for him.

"Beautiful," he rumbles, massive hand splaying across my belly with reverent care. "Perfect."

His touches remain gentle, mindful of my condition as he explores my body with the same thorough attention he's always shown. When his fingers find the slick gathering between my thighs, a pleased growl vibrates through his chest.

"Already wet for me," he notes with satisfaction. "Always so ready."

One massive finger slides inside me, the initial stretch familiar and welcome. My back arches automatically, seeking deeper contact as pleasure radiates outward from his touch.

"More," I demand, past shyness or hesitation. "Need more of you."

He laughs softly, adding a second finger alongside the first, stretching me with careful attention. "Patience, little omega. Have to prepare you properly first."

His fingers work me open with practiced expertise, curling to find that spot deep inside that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. My hips rock against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything.

"Look at you," he growls, golden eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction. "So eager for my touch. So hungry to be filled."

"Yes," I gasp, shameless in my need. The pregnancy has intensified everything—sensitivity, desire, slick production. "Please, Kazuul."

---