Page 130 of Run Little Omega

"There are others who need guidance," he replies cryptically. "Other paths that must be prepared."

Cadeyrn clasps forearms with him in warrior fashion. "Your debt is paid in full," he says formally. "Whatever happens next, you bear no obligation."

The Hound's mouth twists in what might be a smile. "The debt was never to you, Winter Prince." His mismatched eyes shift to me. "Remember what I said. You carry hope."

With that, he melts into the shadows, his departure so swift and silent it seems almost like magic itself. One moment present, the next gone, leaving Cadeyrn and me alone on the threshold of Winter Court territory.

"Ready?" Cadeyrn asks, offering his hand.

I take it, feeling the strength in his fingers as they close around mine. Whatever lies between us—the betrayal, the hurt, the slow rebuilding of something that might eventually become trust—matters less than what awaits ahead.

"Ready," I reply.

Together we descend toward the ravine, toward the frozen falls, toward the Winter Palace with its birthing chambers and potential allies and countless dangers. Toward the place where four impossible lives might find safe passage into a world unprepared for their existence.

The Winter Court awaits, and with it, our most desperate gambit yet.

CHAPTER46

POV: Briar

The Winter Palacelooms before us, a monument to cold precision cut from living ice and ancient stone. Its spires catch the crimson moonlight, fracturing it into bloody shards that scatter across the pristine snow. Beautiful and merciless, just like its creators.

"Remember," Cadeyrn murmurs as we approach the servant's entrance, "keep your eyes down, speak only when directly addressed, and let me do most of the talking."

"Because I'm so naturally submissive and quiet," I mutter, adjusting the hood of my cloak to better conceal my copper-and-silver hair. "Should I curtsy after every sentence too?"

His mouth quirks in that not-quite-smile. "Your defiance is one of your most compelling qualities, but perhaps save it for after we're safely inside."

The children stir beneath my heart, as if sensing my anxiety. I place a steadying hand over them, feeling their movement through the thick wool of my stolen dress. Four impossible lives, each carrying magic that threatens centuries of court power. No pressure or anything.

Surprisingly, we make it through the servant's entrance without challenge. The masked guard barely glances at us, his frost-rimed eyes skimming over my hooded figure with the casual disinterest of someone viewing furniture rather than a person. Court alphas, it seems, truly don't register omegas as worthy of attention unless they're in heat. Small mercies.

Cadeyrn guides me through a labyrinth of narrow corridors, each identical to the last—polished ice floors, pale blue walls etched with geometric patterns, ceilings that curve gracefully overhead. The air carries the sharp scent of winter herbs and something less definable—power, perhaps, ancient and rigid as the ice itself.

"We need to move quickly," Cadeyrn says, his voice low. "The council gathers at the midnight hour. If we time this right, we can use the assembled nobility to our advantage."

"How exactly does walking into a room full of powerful fae who want us dead work to our advantage?" I ask, one hand braced against my lower back where the ache has become constant. "Is this one of those 'so stupid it might work' plans or just regular suicide?"

"Because public execution would be inelegant, and the Winter Court values aesthetics above almost everything." His hand settles at the small of my back, cool and steadying. "And because the Frost Throne has final authority, even over the council."

We pause at an intersection, and Cadeyrn cocks his head, listening to something beyond my human hearing. "Change of plans," he says abruptly. "The council has already convened. They're discussing candidates for the Winter Crown."

"Your replacement," I realize. "They think you're not coming back."

"Good. Let them think that for about five more minutes." His cillae briefly flare beneath the masking salve, betraying excitement or anxiety—perhaps both. "Are you ready?"

"Am I ready to waddle into a den of hostile fae nobility while carrying quadruplets that threaten their entire power structure?" I laugh, the sound carrying more nerves than humor. "Absolutely not. But let's do it anyway."

He studies me for a long moment, ice-blue eyes searching my face as if memorizing its details. Then, without warning, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine—a kiss both fierce and gentle, claiming and offering.

"For luck," he murmurs against my mouth, then straightens. "Now, follow three steps behind me, eyes lowered, hands clasped before you. Don't react, no matter what you see or hear."

Stunned by the unexpected kiss, I can only nod. The taste of him lingers on my lips—cool and sharp, like winter berries—as he turns and strides toward a set of massive doors at the corridor's end.

The council chamber explodes with sound as the doors swing open. I keep my eyes downcast as instructed, but peripherally, I can see dozens of elaborately dressed fae nobles turning in shock at our entrance. The babble of voices rises, then falls to expectant silence as Cadeyrn advances without hesitation toward the center of the chamber.

I follow precisely three steps behind, my heart hammering against my ribs. The four children have gone utterly still, as if sensing the danger surrounding us. Smart kids.

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