4. Interrogation
CHAPTER 4
INTERROGATION
Time becomes fluid when you're strapped to a claiming platform in pre-heat. Minutes stretch into small eternities, then collapse without warning. I drift between hyperawareness and foggy disorientation as my body wages chemical warfare against my mind.
The room's permanent twilight offers no clues about time passing in the world above. When Kael returns, his massive form materializes from the wall itself, shadows parting like curtains to admit their master.
"Your temperature has risen almost two degrees," he announces without preamble. "Heart racing. Hormone levels spiking. Impressive how well you're holding up, considering how long you've been on suppressants."
His matter-of-fact assessment sends a fresh chill through me despite the growing heat beneath my skin. Shadow demons don't just see and smell—they measure everything, missing nothing.
"In a secure room beneath the Midnight Courts," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Will the tribunal be notified of my arrest?"
One of Kael's four arms makes a dismissive gesture. "This interrogation stays off the record."
Cold fear washes through me, temporarily dampening the heat symptoms. Unrecorded means no oversight, no witnesses. Officially, I haven't been arrested at all. I've simply disappeared, like countless resistance members before me.
"Your language skills are remarkable," he observes, circling the platform with predatory grace. All four of his arms move in constant, fluid motion as shadows dance around him. "Seven dialect variations in your written reports. Too precise for standard translator training."
The sudden shift to professional assessment catches me off guard. Is this his interrogation technique? Disorienting mood switches?
I stick to my cover story despite mounting terror. "I was a linguistics student before the Conquest. Northwestern University."
"Yes." His purple eyes narrow slightly. "Your records show your education was cut short by the dimensional rifts. Yet you learned Shadow Speech three times faster than any other human."
One hand grasps my chin, forcing eye contact. The touch sends unwanted electricity through my increasingly sensitive skin. Up close, his eyes aren't solid purple but contain swirling patterns like violent storms on an alien planet.
"What's most interesting," he continues, "is that you learn like someone with military training, not like a student."
Damn it. Even my learning patterns betrayed me?
"I've always had an ear for languages," I say weakly.
"An ear sharpened by resistance training," he counters. "The way you mimic Shadow Speech regional accents shows someone taught you intelligence gathering techniques."
Sweat beads on my forehead as the first waves of emerging heat intensify. My skin feels too tight, hypersensitive against the shadow restraints. Each point of contact sends confusing signals to my brain—part discomfort, part something I refuse to acknowledge.
"Your chemical disguise is impressive," Kael notes, shadows extending from his fingers to brush against my throat where pheromone glands are beginning to activate. "Not the usual black market stuff. Something much more advanced."
His fourth hand produces the communications device found in my uniform. "Just like this isn't standard human tech."
When he activates it, resistance codes flash briefly on the small screen. I lunge forward in desperate attempt to destroy the evidence, but the shadow restraints hold me firmly in place.
My sudden movement brings a rush of slick between my thighs, my body responding with shameful eagerness to the alpha pheromones Kael continuously emits. His nostrils flare, purple eyes brightening with cruel satisfaction.
"Your body tells truths your words hide, little omega."
The patronizing endearment sparks anger that temporarily cuts through the heat-fog. "My body isn't me."
"No?" One of his shadow tendrils traces along my collarbone, leaving trails of cold fire on hypersensitive skin. "Your mind lies. Your body can't."
To demonstrate his point, the tendril moves lower, brushing against my breast through the thin fabric of my underclothes. My nipple hardens instantly, a gasp escaping before I can stop it.
"Your heat is speeding up," he observes, as though conducting a scientific experiment rather than tormenting a captive. "About three hours until you lose control completely."
Three hours until I lose myself completely to omega biology—begging, pleading, willing to say anything or betray anyone just for the relief of alpha claiming. The resistance trains operatives to withstand standard interrogation techniques, but there's no defense against your own treacherous body.
"Tell me about the resistance network in the Shadow Dominion," Kael says, returning to formal interrogation mode with jarring abruptness. "Names. Locations. How you communicate."
I press my lips together, focusing on resistance mental disciplines. Create locked boxes in your mind. Surround critical data with useless memories. Build cognitive mazes that lead nowhere.
Kael watches my concentration with something almost like appreciation. "Those mental barriers won't hold once your heat takes over," he says. "But I'm impressed you're still trying."
Without warning, his shadow tendrils infiltrate deeper beneath my clothes, wrapping around my thighs with cold precision. I jerk against the restraints as they inch higher, discovering the damning evidence of slick soaking through my undergarments.
"Your omega scent has gotten 40% stronger in just the last few minutes," he reports, clinical assessment at odds with the intimate violation. "Your suppressants are completely gone now. Nothing left to hide behind."
His massive form looms closer, all four arms extended in formal Shadow Speech patterns I recognize from courtroom proceedings. The ceremonial interrogation stance.
"Nova Hayes, registered beta translator, actual omega resistance operative," he intones, the formal declaration sending chills down my spine. "You will tell me everything about all resistance activities, contacts, and operations in Shadow Dominion territory."
When I remain silent, one of his upper arms reaches toward my face. I flinch, expecting pain, but his touch is disturbingly gentle as he brushes sweat-dampened hair from my forehead.
"Physical torture doesn't work well on resistance operatives," he says. "You expect pain. You're ready for it. But your own biology will break you down in ways torture never could."
His lower right hand produces a small device I recognize with horror—a heat accelerant injector designed for breeding facilities. The sight of it breaks through my carefully maintained composure.
"No!" The word tears from my throat before I can stop it. "That's against Conquest regulations for interrogation!"
A shadow of what might be amusement crosses his alien features. "You're citing Conquest law while breaking omega registration rules?"
The hypocrisy of my objection hangs between us, but desperation overrides logic. Heat accelerants don't just speed up the process—they intensify it beyond bearable limits, driving omegas into a frenzy that destroys all rational thought.
"Please," I whisper, hating the pleading note in my voice. "Not that."
Kael studies me with those unsettling purple eyes, the accelerant poised in his hand. "If you volunteer information, I won't need this."
The cold calculation behind his words is worse than any threat. He doesn't need to force me—just wait for biology to do the work for him. But the accelerant would guarantee I'd break within minutes rather than hours.
"I can tell you about the suppression network," I offer desperately. "Distribution routes. Manufacturing locations."
His head tilts slightly. "Starting to negotiate? Interesting approach."
"Not negotiation. Cooperation." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but buying time is my only option. "The suppressants are damaging omegas. The resistance doesn't care."
For a moment, I think he believes me. Then those purple eyes narrow.
"Your heartbeat just spiked. Your face shows you're lying." The accelerant device moves closer to my arm. "You're trying to feed me little bits of information while protecting what really matters. It's what I expected."
The shadow restraints tighten almost imperceptibly, and I realize with sinking dread that he's been testing me the entire time—analyzing every response, cataloging every reaction with centuries of experience in reading human deception.
"Your mental defenses will break down just like your body already has," he promises, setting the accelerant aside. "It's just a matter of time."
The reprieve from immediate chemical torment offers small comfort. Without the accelerant, I have hours rather than minutes before heat overwhelms me. But the outcome remains the same—complete surrender, just on a slightly delayed timeline.
Kael's four arms move in elaborate patterns as he activates a shadowy interface I can't comprehend. Data materializes in the air around us—surveillance footage, communication intercepts, supply chain analysis. He's built a comprehensive case against me, piece by painstaking piece, long before today's capture.
"Omega extraction operations using translator credentials," he notes, highlighting footage of me entering buildings that coincide with documented disappearances. "Suppressant distribution through cultural exchange programs. Resistance messages hidden in translation verification systems."
My carefully constructed world collapses with each revelation. He knows everything—not just my omega status, but every resistance operation I've touched over three years. The question isn't what I'll reveal under interrogation, but what remains hidden at all.
"How long have you been watching me?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Those purple eyes fix on mine with unsettling intensity. "Personally? About seven and a half weeks. Our intelligence unit spotted unusual patterns in translator movements about six months ago."
Six months of surveillance. Six months of thinking I was clever while walking deeper into their trap with each passing day.
"Your security measures were excellent," he adds, the professional acknowledgment somehow more disturbing than condemnation. "Out of seventeen suspected infiltrators, you had the most convincing cover identity."
"Then why not arrest me sooner?" I ask, genuinely puzzled despite my dire situation.
"You were worth more to us free," he explains with chilling practicality. "Following you led us to three more resistance cells. Your communications gave us encryption keys to monitor the wider network."
The full horror of my unwitting betrayal hits like a physical blow. I've been leading them to resistance operatives for months without knowing it. Every precaution I took, every security protocol I followed—all ultimately serving Shadow Dominion intelligence.
Fresh waves of heat wash through me, my temperature rising as pre-heat progresses relentlessly. The shadow restraints feel like ice against my burning skin, creating a torturous contrast that draws involuntary whimpers from my lips.
Kael observes my increasing distress with clinical interest. "Your heat is progressing normally despite years of suppressant use. Impressive resilience."
His scientific detachment infuriates me, momentarily cutting through the biological fog. "I'm not your lab experiment!"
"No?" Shadow tendrils extend from his hands, hovering just above my flushed skin. "You're much more valuable. A resistance operative with omega biology and exceptional language skills. Perfect for studying memory extraction during heat vulnerability."
Memory extraction. The euphemism chills me despite my rising temperature. Shadow demons can sometimes access human memories directly during moments of extreme emotional or physical states—a process rumored to be excruciating and occasionally fatal.
One of Kael's tendrils brushes against my scent gland, now fully activated and pulsing with each rapid heartbeat. The touch sends electric shocks through my nervous system, drawing an involuntary moan that I try and fail to suppress.
"Your resistance to claiming despite clear biological compatibility suggests psychological conditioning beyond standard training," he observes. "Maybe trauma from the Blood Week?"
The casual reference to the systematic slaughter of human alphas—including my father and brother—ignites rage that temporarily burns brighter than heat symptoms.
"Don't you dare psychoanalyze me," I snarl, straining against the restraints. "You murdered half our population and expect us to be grateful you didn't finish the job!"
Rather than anger, my outburst seems to please him. "Emotional reactions give me useful data. Your heat speeds up when you get emotional."
He's right, damn him. The surge of anger has triggered another wave of heat symptoms—more intense slick production, heightened sensitivity, the first shameful emptiness that craves alpha filling. My body leverages every emotion, every reaction, against my conscious mind.
"The resistance trains its operatives well," Kael continues, circling the platform again. "But evolution designed omega biology to override conscious resistance during heat. A survival mechanism ensuring reproduction happens regardless of what you think you want."
His clinical explanation of my impending surrender only makes it more humiliating. He doesn't need to force me—just wait for my own body to betray everything I believe, everything I've fought for.
"Some resistance operatives choose death rather than reveal network information," he says, studying my face for reaction. "Is that your intention?"
The question catches me off guard. Is he offering me a way out? The momentary hope dies as quickly as it forms. Shadow demons don't offer mercy kills.
"Death isn't necessary," he continues, confirming my suspicion. "Your knowledge will be extracted regardless. The choice just determines how it happens and what comes after."
"What comes after?" I ask, unable to stop myself.
All four of his arms extend in a gesture I can't interpret, shadows gathering around his massive form. "Cooperate, and you'll get special consideration for claiming arrangements. Resist, and you'll go to a breeding facility after we get what we need."
The difference is clear, though neither option offers anything resembling freedom. Personal claiming by a single shadow demon versus being used as breeding stock by multiple alphas in government facilities. The illusion of choice between two versions of captivity.
"You're offering to claim me personally if I cooperate," I translate, the words bitter on my tongue.
"Correct." No pretense, no softening. Just cold certainty. "Your language skills are still valuable to Shadow Dominion operations. Breeding facilities waste specialized talents."
Such generosity. Be his personal omega or be reduced to a breeding vessel for random shadow demons. The options swim before me as another wave of heat washes through my system, stronger than before. My rational mind struggles to stay afloat in the rising tide of biological imperative.
"Your heat will reach the breaking point in about ninety minutes," Kael informs me, shadows extending from his body to create a cocoon-like darkness around the platform. "I will get your resistance connections, safe house locations, and communication codes. The only question is whether your mind stays intact enough to use your language skills afterward."
The threat isn't subtle. Cooperate or be broken so completely that only my womb remains useful. As if to emphasize the point, shadow tendrils wrap around my throat, not choking but reminding me how easily they could.
"This method works on 94% of omega subjects," he continues, his massive form looming over me. "Your mental training might slow things down a little, but biology always wins in the end."
His confidence is absolute because it's justified. No one withstands their own biology forever. The resistance knows this—it's why unregistered omegas receive priority extraction from Shadow Dominion territory. Once heat begins, capture means complete defeat.
I close my eyes, focusing on resistance mental techniques with increasing desperation. Create memory mazes. Build decoy information. Protect core network data behind walls of trivial details. But each passing minute makes concentration harder as heat chemistry floods my system.
"Your struggle is impressive," Kael acknowledges, his voice somehow closer though I haven't heard him move. "Most people give up mental resistance within minutes of confirmed pre-heat."
I open my eyes to find him directly above me, all four arms positioned around the platform. His face hovers inches from mine, those swirling purple eyes studying me with disconcerting intensity.
"Your mind will surrender just as your body has," he promises, one massive hand moving toward my face. "It's just a matter of time."
As his cold fingers trace my burning cheek, my body responds with another shameful rush of slick. The omega within recognizes a compatible alpha regardless of species, regardless of captivity circumstances, regardless of everything I believe and fight for.
His touch lingers, unexpectedly gentle for a creature who could crush my skull with minimal effort. Something flickers in those alien eyes—not compassion, but perhaps a hint of genuine curiosity beyond mere interrogation protocol.
"Interesting," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Most omegas this far into heat have completely given in mentally. Your continued resistance suggests something unusual in your mind that deserves closer study."
Even in this moment of utter vulnerability, he sees me as a specimen to analyze. Yet beneath his clinical assessment, I detect something else—a subtle note of respect that contradicts everything resistance intelligence claims about shadow demon attitudes toward humans.
The contradiction gives me something to focus on beyond the mounting heat, a puzzle that momentarily distracts from biological surrender. But time, the one thing I desperately need more of, continues slipping away with each passing moment.