Page 144 of Run Little Omega

His free hand comes down on my ass in a stinging slap that sends a jolt of unexpected pleasure up my spine. "Louder," he demands, repeating the action on the other cheek. "I want the entire Winter Court to hear who's claiming you."

Another sharp slap coincides with a particularly deep thrust, and I stop caring about pride or restraint. "Cadeyrn!" I scream, pushing back to meet each brutal drive of his hips.

"That's it," he approves, continuing the delicious dual assault—his cock filling me from behind while his hand delivers stinging slaps that somehow intensify every sensation. "Show me how much you love being claimed by your alpha."

In this position, I'm completely at his mercy, and some omega part of me revels in the surrender. Each thrust drives me forward, his grip on my hair the only thing keeping me from collapsing face-first into the pillows. His knot begins to swell again with astonishing speed, catching on my entrance with each withdraw and forceful return.

"Going to knot you again," he growls, pace becoming erratic as his control slips. "Going to fill you so full you'll be dripping for days."

"Yes," I beg, beyond shame or pride, lost in the primal pleasure of being claimed so thoroughly. "Please—alpha—knot me?—"

With a roar that seems to shake the chamber walls, he drives forward one final time, his knot forcing past my already-sensitive entrance to lock us together again. His release triggers my own, a tidal wave of pleasure that has me screaming his name as my inner walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing knot.

Frost explodes outward from where our bodies join, coating the entire chamber in crystalline patterns that pulse with the rhythm of our shared heartbeats. Magic flows between us in visible streams, blue-white light connecting cillae across our skin in complex constellations.

Still locked inside me, Cadeyrn carefully maneuvers us onto our sides, his arm wrapped protectively around my belly where our children rest. His mouth finds my claiming mark again, teeth pressing just hard enough to send aftershocks of pleasure rippling through my boneless body.

"Mine," he murmurs against my neck, the possessive claim somehow both primal and tender.

"Yours," I agree, too satiated to maintain my usual defenses. I reach back to touch his face, feeling the cillae spiraling across his cheek. "And you're mine."

His arm tightens around me, his knot pulsing with another release of seed that fills me with warmth and vital magic. "Always," he promises, the word vibrating with truth that resonates through our claiming bond.

As exhaustion finally begins to claim me, I feel the little ones shift contentedly beneath our joined hands, their magic pulsing in harmony with our own. Whatever challenges await us—court politics, birth chambers, combined enemies—we face them not as Winter Prince and claimed omega, but as something new and ancient all at once.

Partners. Equals. Alpha and omega transformed through Wild Magic and love into something neither the courts nor we ourselves could have predicted.

I've never been one for fairy tales or destiny, but as cillae trace constellations across our joined bodies, I find myself believing in possibilities I would have scoffed at mere weeks ago.

After all, I'm carrying four lives that shouldn't be possible, claimed by a prince who shouldn't be capable of love, in a court that never imagined change could come from within.

Anything, it seems, is possible when Wild Magic awakens.

CHAPTER49

POV: Briar

Court formality can kissmy ass.

I shift uncomfortably on the small throne they've provided beside Cadeyrn's massive one, trying to find a position that doesn't make my back scream or the little ones protest. The formal Winter Court attire they've forced me into—layers of frost-blue silk that supposedly honor my "elevated status"—feels like a costume, something designed to make me forget I was forging iron just weeks ago.

"Stop fidgeting," Cadeyrn murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. "It undermines your authority."

"My authority?" I snort quietly. "These people would happily dissect me for parts if you weren't sitting right there."

His hand slides over mine where it rests on the armrest, cillae briefly flaring where our skin connects. "Not all of them."

He's right, frustratingly. The court has split into clear factions since our return from the blackthorn forest. The younger nobles—those who grew up hearing whispers about Wild Magic and fading bloodlines—gather around Lady Lysandra, their cillae subtly altered to echo my own. The older aristocracy clusters around Lord Frostbaine, all rigid tradition and thinly veiled disgust whenever they look my way.

The throne room itself seems to be choosing sides. Cracks have appeared in the ancient ice walls, thin fissures that pulse with blue-white light when I walk past. The ceiling, once a perfect dome of translucent crystal, now displays shifting patterns that remind me of stars rearranging themselves into new constellations.

"The court recognizes Lord Frostbaine," announces the chamberlain, his voice echoing through the vast space.

Speak of the devil.

Lord Frostbaine rises from his seat among the elder nobles, his white-blonde hair arranged in elaborate braids that broadcast his military rank and bloodline. Everything about him screams traditional Winter Court values—from his perfectly symmetrical features to the frost runes etched into his formal armor.

"My Prince," he begins, voice carrying the perfect mix of deference and challenge, "many among us have concerns about recent... developments within the Winter Court."

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