Page 13 of Run Little Omega

The clasp snaps shut with finality, the sound like fate itself sealing.

Pain erupts immediately—not the subtle discomfort the others seemed to feel, but searing agony that races up my arm and explodes behind my eyes. The bracelet burns against my skin, magic reacting violently with something in my blood or the glamour spell or both. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming, tasting copper as the blue-white light flares with unusual intensity around my wrist.

The emissary's eyes widen slightly—the first genuine expression I've seen on his perfect face. But then the moment passes, the pain subsiding to a dull throb that pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat. He releases my arm without comment, already turning to the next tribute in line.

I retreat to join the others who have received their bracelets, my mind racing. Why did I react differently? Is it the glamour interfering with the binding magic? Or something else—something in my blood that responds differently to fae enchantment?

No time to think about that now. As darkness claims the Gathering Circle, reality settles over me with crushing weight. There's no going back. The silver bracelet binds me to the Hunt as surely as my promise binds me to protecting Willow. Come dawn, I'll enter the Bloodmoon Forest alongside thirty-six other omegas, each of us prey in a game designed for our destruction.

But unlike them, I have purpose beyond just surviving, hidden beneath my glamour. Iron in my pockets. Steel against my thigh. And the strength of a blacksmith beneath a dying girl's face.

Let the Hunt come. I've been forging my own fate for years.

CHAPTER6

POV: Briar

Night fallsover the Gathering Circle like a heavy curtain, bringing a stillness that feels anything but natural. The bonfire at the center throws long shadows across the ancient stones, turning the monoliths into towering guards. We omegas huddle closer together, instinct pushing us toward shared warmth even though we all know it won't protect us from what's coming.

They're coming. We all feel it—a pressure in the air, a primal awareness that makes the hair on our necks stand up. A scent in the air that calls to our omega natures, stoking primitive desires.

"It's just the viewing," whispers Rose beside me, her perfect features tight with barely controlled panic. "They can't approach us tonight. Ancient protocol."

Protocol. Such a civilized word for what amounts to displaying cattle before slaughter. I say nothing, focusing instead on the weight of iron tokens against my thigh and the steady rhythm of my blacksmith's heart beneath Willow's borrowed face.

The first alpha appears from the tree line like he was conjured from nothing—there one moment where nothing had been before. Others follow, materializing from between silver-leaved trees with the fluid grace of predators. They keep their distance, staying at the forest's edge as the Hunt's ancient rules demand, but their presence changes the clearing instantly.

"Gods above," breathes Carrie, the plain village seamstress whose gray eyes now shine with unwilling fascination. "They're beautiful."

She's not wrong. Fae beauty is a weapon more effective than claws or fangs—a lure designed to hypnotize prey into fatal stillness. Even knowing this, I can't help but stare.

The Summer Court alphas arrive first, their golden skin glowing like they're lit from within. Flame-red hair falls in elaborate braids woven with trophies—small bones, teeth, scraps of cloth—physical records of past conquests. They pace along the forest boundary like caged predators, muscles rippling beneath ceremonial leather, amber eyes gleaming with raw hunger.

"That's Lord Klairs Thorn," whispers Flora, her specialized breeding giving her knowledge most omegas don't have. "Seven centuries of Hunt participation. He's claimed dozens. The scars on his skin—one for each successful breeding."

I follow her gaze to the tallest of the Summer alphas, his bronzed skin indeed covered with raised patterns that glow faintly in the firelight. His frame is impossibly broad, radiating heat you can actually see as a shimmer in the night air. When he turns his head toward our huddled group, nostrils flaring to sample our collective scent, several omegas whimper involuntarily.

Not me. I've faced forge fires hot enough to melt iron. One alpha's heat doesn't scare me.

The Autumn Court representatives appear next, their approach more measured than the Summer Court's restless prowling. Their skin has subtle patterns like fallen leaves, their hair the russet and gold of harvest season. They stand perfectly still, amber eyes developing visible vein-like patterns as they study us with unsettling intensity.

"The Raveling Brothers," Flora continues, voice dropping lower. "Not twins, but bred close enough to share nearly identical features. They hunt as a unit, trading omegas between them during extended breeding sessions."

My stomach turns at what she's saying. The Brothers stand side by side, perfectly mirrored in stance and expression, distinguished only by the ritual scarring on their forearms—one with vertical marks, the other horizontal. Their synchronization feels wrong, unnatural in a way that goes beyond their fae nature.

"What happens if they both want the same omega?" Mira asks, her youth—I’ve learned she’s barely seventeen—making her both terrified and morbidly curious.

Flora's violet eyes darken. "They don't compete. They share."

The young girl turns pale, instinctively shrinking behind Wren, whose midwife's hands settle protectively on her shoulders. "Don't look directly at any of them," the older woman advises. "Eye contact can be interpreted as challenge or invitation."

Wise advice I immediately ignore as the Spring Court alphas emerge next, their appearance deceptively gentle compared to the others. Skin in soft greens and pinks, hair like new growth after winter thaw. Their beauty carries a false gentleness that makes them potentially more dangerous than the obviously predatory Summer Court.

"The Huntsman," breathes Ivy, recognition and terror mixing in her voice. "My cousin was selected three Hunts ago. He claimed her." Her unmarked hands tremble as she points toward a slender alpha whose unremarkable build hides the reputation that precedes him. "They say he's kind during the chase. Gentle even, until the moment he isn't."

I follow her gesture to a fae with chestnut hair falling across eyes the unnatural green of spring leaves, his face arranged in an expression of perfect empathy. As I watch, small flowers bloom across his exposed forearms, their colors shifting subtly in response to our fear.

He feeds on it, I realize. Our terror nourishes him as surely as food would.

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