Page 33 of Run Little Omega

CHAPTER13

POV: Briar

The crimson moonhangs fat and swollen above me, bleeding all over the night sky like some ripe wound. Its light drips through silver leaves, turning everything blood-red and nightmare-strange. I stop dead in a small clearing, face upturned, staring at the thing that's making my life a living hell right now.

Three nights ago, that moon just had a red tint. Tonight? It's obscene—dominating everything with that sickly glow.

"Figures," I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Bleeding moon above, bleeding omegas below. Poetry."

The moonlight feels wrong tonight. It's not just lighting things up—it's crawling over my skin, sinking in, like it wants inside me. Those herbs the old woman gave me? Useless now. My heat is roaring through me, worse than anything I could have imagined. I'm burning up even though the night air is cool enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. My skin feels raw, like I've been scrubbed with sandpaper, every breeze a torment of sensation.

I slam my palm against the nearest tree to keep from falling over, dizzy and disoriented. My senses have gone crazy—everything's too much. A twig snaps somewhere far off and my whole body tenses like it's a battle drum. Leaves rustle overhead and I'm sure someone's watching me. Then a howl cuts through the night from the east—some fae alpha marking his territory—and my body just betrays me, warmth pooling between my thighs, inner muscles clenching around nothing.

"You backstabbing traitor," I snarl at my own body, gritting my teeth and forcing my wobbly legs to keep moving. No matter how much my stupid omega biology begs for relief.

The forest feels alive tonight, actually alive, its pulse matching the rhythm of that bloody moonlight. I drag my fingers along a tree trunk as I pass and—holy shit—it lights up under my touch. Like something's awake inside it, glowing through the bark before fading back into darkness. I kick up some dirt and suddenly the air fills with smells—rain-soaked earth, lightning, and something else, something old that makes the back of my neck prickle.

I squint at the Survivor’s map, trying to follow the lines north toward some caves that might keep me safe from Summer Court alphas. I should’ve been there by now, but I keep having to stop every few minutes when another wave of heat surges through me, leaving me panting and damp and furious.

A fox appears on the path ahead, its russet coat turned blood-dark in the crimson light. Instead of fleeing at my approach, it sits back on its haunches and watches me with unnerving intentness. Its eyes reflect intelligence beyond animal awareness, assessing me with almost human consideration before it turns and trots away into the underbrush.

"That's new," I murmur, uncertain whether to be concerned or comforted by the unusual behavior.

The wildlife has been acting strangely all day as I make my way through the forest. Deer freeze in place as I pass, eyes tracking my movement until I'm gone from sight. Birds go silent at my approach but resume their calls in patterns that sound almost like conversation once I've moved beyond their perches.

I'm still freaking out about the glowing trees when a massive wolf just appears on the path ahead of me. Not just big—huge, with a silver-gray coat that sparkles in the moonlight like it's been dusted with diamonds. My hand goes straight to my knife—like that tiny blade would do anything against those teeth, but it's better than nothing. The beast just stands there staring at me, yellow eyes boring into mine like it's reading my thoughts.

Then it—no, I must be hallucinating from the heat—it bows its head to me. Actually bows. Then just melts away into the bushes like a ghost.

"What in the actual fuck—" I choke out, then snap my mouth shut when something rustles in the trees overhead. Great. More creepy watchers.

The forest isn't just alive tonight—it's awake. Watching me. All of it. I can feel eyes from every direction, the weight of attention pressing against my skin. The weird thing is, it doesn't scare me like it should. It's not threatening—more like I'm being... studied. Recognized. Like the forest knows me somehow.

The crimson moonlight grows stronger as the night deepens, and with it, my symptoms intensify. Sweat beads along my hairline despite the cool air. My nipples harden to painful points against the rough fabric of my shirt. The ache between my thighs transforms from discomfort to insistent demand, moisture gathering with every step.

A cry rips through the night—an omega being claimed. I can hear everything in that sound: the pain of teeth breaking skin, the shock of being filled too suddenly, and worst of all, the unmistakable pleasure underneath it all. I catch a glimpse through the trees—a flash of pale skin against darker flesh, a female form pinned beneath a much larger male, her back arched as he drives into her.

Another cry joins from somewhere to my right—higher, more desperate. Then another, and another. The Hunt is everywhere tonight.

"Oh god," I whisper, pressing my thighs together so hard they tremble. My own body responds instantly, treacherously—warmth flooding between my legs, nipples tightening to painful points, a hollow ache deep inside that's almost a cramp. I hate it. I hate how much my body wants what my mind rejects. How fascinating it is to hear those cries. How terrified I am. How stupidly, shamefully aroused.

Fergus's awkward lessons on omega biology never covered this—this animal need that turns your own body into your enemy. "When heat comes, it's just chemistry," he'd said, all gruff practicality. Yeah, right. Chemistry doesn't begin to cover the desperate emptiness clawing at my insides right now.

"Keep moving," I tell myself firmly. "One foot in front of the other."

The map indicates a small spring ahead, and the promise of cool water drives me forward when my body wants nothing more than to collapse into the moss and give in to the fever consuming me. When I finally reach it, I drop to my knees beside the bubbling water, plunging my hands and then my entire face into its blessed coolness.

The relief is immediate but temporary. As soon as I withdraw, the heat returns, more intense for having been briefly suppressed. I gulp water desperately, hoping hydration might help where willpower is failing.

The air is thick with scents that make my head spin—rutting alphas and heat-drunk omegas, their smells mingling in a punch-to-the-gut cocktail that's impossible to ignore. Every breeze seems deliberately cruel, bringing new waves of alpha musk straight to me. Each distinctive scent hits me like a physical touch—some earthy and woody, others spiced and warm—all triggering these pathetic little shudders across my skin, making me wetter, making my knees weaker with each passing minute.

Then I catch it—a scent that's different from all the others. Clean snow. Ice crystals. Something masculine that cuts through everything else like a knife. My omega hindbrain actually whines for it.

Cadeyrn. The Winter Prince isn't close enough to track me directly, but he's marked this entire area. His scent is everywhere, wrapping around me like possessive hands.

My reaction is humiliating. Instant, powerful, undeniable. My inner muscles clench and release around nothing, empty and aching. A desperate little sound builds in my throat before I choke it back, swallowing it down with what's left of my pride. This isn't really me—it's just stupid omega biology. Just the Hunt magic screwing with my head, trying to make me into a breeding machine.

"Just chemicals," I whisper, forcing one foot in front of the other. "Just fucking chemicals." Each step feels like a tiny victory in a war I'm clearly losing against my own desperate body.

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