Page 23 of Run Little Omega

By sunset, I’ve laid three more false trails and successfully led the alpha hunting party away—that, or as it occurs to me with dread, they found an easier target. Returing to my campground, I settle into the sleeping spot in the hollow of the ancient blackthorn tree. Its twisted trunk has grown into the boulder beside it, creating a natural shelter that’s almost impossible to see.

The first howls and snarls of active pursuit echo through the darkening forest as I curl my legs up to my chest and pull soft forest moss around myself. The true Hunt is underway.

I close my eyes warily, trying to ignore the growing warmth in my abdomen—the first real sign that my body is awakening after years of suppression. The herbs I used to mask my omega status are wearing off, and my natural biology is reasserting itself with a vengeance, accelerated by the Hunt magic and the crimson moons influence.

My fingers brush against hte iron token hidden in my boot—my last emergency measure if things go catastrophically wrong. Iron is poison to pure fae, though the effects vary depending on bloodline and power. It might buy me a moment’s advantage in the worst case.

A moment might be all I get.

As night deepens around me, the forest transforms into a different realm altogether. Red moonlight filters through the silvery leaves of the blackthorn trees, casting strange, shifting patterns across the ground. The trees themselves seem to whisper to each other, their ancient boughs creaking in a language just beyond human understanding.

In the soft, quiet darkness, I almost begin to drift to sleep.

Only to jerk awake at the sound of a scream—high and terrified—that transforms into something worse. The guttural moans and whimpers that follow are punctured by snarls and the unmistakable sounds of violent claiming. Flesh striking flesh. Sobbing pleas that dissolve into whimpers. The alpha’s triumphant growls growing louder as his victim’s resistance fades.

I press my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t block the sounds of a victim being broken. When a sharp, horrified cry and a guttural groan of pleasure marks the moment the knot takes her, it makes me squeeze my thighs together in horror. My false trails may have helped Nessa, but nearby, they aren’t protecting another omega from being raped and filled with alpha seed.

The Hunt has claimed a victim, leaving behind something that’s neither fully alive nor mercifully dead.

I close my eyes, whispering a silent apology to whoever it was, guilt mixing with a shameful relief that it wasn’t me. Then I force myself to rest, to conserve strength for tomorrow’s challenges. Twenty more days stretch before me—twenty days of running, hiding, and outwitting predators designed by nature and magic to find me.

But I’ve spent my life at a forge, hammering unyielding metal into submission, finding strength in resistance. If any omega can survive this Hunt unclaimed, it will be me.

As sleep finally claims me, my last conscious thought is of Prince Cadeyrn’s perfect, cold face—and the flicker of something hungry that woke in his eyes when they met mine.

CHAPTER10

POV: Briar

Morning mist clingsto the forest floor and swirls around my ankles with every step that I take. My muscles scream from a night spent curled up in the hollow of a tree, and the silver bracelet feels heavier today, almost as if it's anchoring me to the forest. According to Fergus's contraband maps and Sera's compass, the first haven should be nearby.

I pause, listening. The forest has changed overnight. The birdsong and rustling leaves have given way to an eerie silence broken only by distant sounds that turn my stomach—guttural growls followed by high-pitched keening, the unmistakable rhythm of flesh striking flesh.

The sound of ripping fabric cuts through my awareness somewhere to my left, followed by a strangled cry and rhythmic grunting. Bodies slap together as the low, deep voice of an alpha in rut snarls: "Cock-hungry little omega. So tight and slick around me. Your body knows what it wants." The victim's sobs turn to choked moans—the sound of someone being broken. I freeze, bile rising in my throat, reaching down for my makeshift knife where I tied it to my thigh.

As I turn towards the sound and see movement through the trees—muscle bunching, backs bowed, small, feminine hands scrambling in the dirt—the urge to run is overwhelming. Instead I get closer step by step, taking my time, because running triggers the chase instinct.

Though based on the flash of a swelling knot at the base of the alpha's cock, visible between brutal thrusts into the omega trapped beneath him, soon he won't be able to run or chase anything.

I recognize her as I get closer: Sera, the survivor. Alarm curls in my belly at the sight of her being subjugated beneath the alpha's grip. His grunts and snarls are a counterpoint to her quiet moans of pain and unwilling pleasure. The alpha isn't one I recognize, but based on the pattern of autumn leaves cascading down his spine, he's from the Autumn Court.

The omega who gave me the compass—who seemed to know more than she let on—is being reduced to breeding stock before my eyes. My hand tightens around the iron token at my belt. This isn't what I planned, but plans change in the forge all the time. Sometimes you have to adjust the metal while it's still hot.

Before I can think better of it, I fling the iron token. It strikes the alpha's shoulder, burning into fae flesh with a sizzling hiss. He rears back, howling, his claiming interrupted. His head whips toward me, pupils narrowing to feral slits.

"Run, Sera!" I shout, already backing away.

The alpha snarls, yanking himself free from Sera with brutal force. "Two omegas," he growls, lips stretching over teeth too sharp for a human mouth. "How fortunate."

I turn to flee, but I've miscalculated. Though his knot was beginning to swell, it wasn't fully locked. He can still chase—and now he's fixated on me. My scent, even suppressed, must be stronger than I realized.

I sprint through the trees, leaping over fallen logs, ducking under branches. The forest closes around me, paths narrowing where moments before they'd been wide. The alpha's breathing grows closer—too close.

His weight crashes into me from behind, driving me face-first into the loamy earth. The impact knocks my knife from my grip, sending it spinning into undergrowth. His weight settles over me, iron-hard muscles pinning me down as his breath scorches my neck.

"Sweet little troublemaker," he purrs against my ear, voice thick with rut. His hips grind against me, the hard length of him pressing against my clothed backside. "Your scent is... unusual. Masked somehow."

I thrash beneath him, but it's like fighting the anvil itself. His hands tear at my clothes, ripping fabric like paper. Panic surges through me, but I force it down. Panic makes you stupid, and stupid gets you killed. I need to think.

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