Page 34 of Run Little Omega

The night deepens around me. Exhaustion makes every step an effort, but stopping seems more dangerous than continuing. I need sheltered rest before my strength fails completely. According to the map, I should reach the lightning-struck oak soon, the landmark that will guide me toward the caves and temporary sanctuary from pursuit.

When I finally spot it, the massive tree stands like a sentinel in a small clearing, its upper half shattered by ancient lightning strike. The exposed heartwood gleams silver in the crimson moonlight, and the ground around its base is unusually clear of underbrush, as if nothing dares grow in its shadow.

My instincts scream a warning before my conscious mind processes what's wrong—the clearing is too perfect, too obviously a place where a tired, heat-addled omega might stop to rest. A trap, perhaps, or at least a natural observation point for hunting alphas.

I circle wide instead, keeping to the densest shadows, moving with painful slowness to avoid disturbing the leaf litter. The caution costs precious energy I can barely afford to spend, but the alternative could cost far more.

Beyond the oak, the forest floor begins a subtle descent, the first indication I'm approaching the northern valleys where caves have formed. The trees thin slightly, and the air carries a hint of coolness that offers welcome relief to my overheated skin.

I find shelter in a hollow beneath exposed roots again, a space barely large enough for my body but well-concealed from casual observation. The cramped quarters are uncomfortable but secure, and at this point, security matters more than comfort.

From my shelter, the sounds of the Hunt grow louder all around me. The cries of claimed omegas carry clearly now, impossible to ignore. Some voices break with pain, others moan with unwilling pleasure as their bodies respond to claiming .

I press my hands over my ears, but it does nothing to block the sounds—or my body's response to them. Every cry sends pulses through me, my omega biology recognizing and responding to the claiming itself no matter how brutal or unwanted.

The silver bracelet burns against my skin, the cillae now extending nearly to my elbow. They pulse with faint blue light whenever a particularly strong wave of heat washes through me, as if responding to my symptoms. Whatever magic the Winter Prince worked into these patterns, it isn't static—it's evolving, growing, spreading with each passing hour of the Hunt.

Even after a week of cramped, feverish sleep, I’m still unused to resting in these conditions. My body craves real sleep, the kind that comes when I feel safe and comfortable. I force myself to close my eyes, knowing that exhaustion will only make tomorrow's journey more dangerous. The Survivor's map showed safe paths through this region, but following them requires clear thinking and steady hands—neither of which I'll have without rest.

Despite my determination to remain vigilant, unconsciousness claims me eventually, dragging me down into dreams vivid enough to seem like visions.

I dream of ice, but not the killing cold of winter storms. This ice is beautiful, alive—frost spreading across my skin in delicate patterns like silver lace. It starts at my wrist where that damned bracelet sits, then flows upward, covering me completely. The crystalline patterns pulse with soft blue light as they trace every curve of my body. They don't feel cold or dangerous—they feel like being touched everywhere at once, making my skin hypersensitive, alive with sensation.

The dream shifts and suddenly I'm walking through hallways made of pure crystal, walls so clear and perfect they seem impossible. Snow falls inside this palace, tiny flakes drifting down from an unseen sky. But the strangest part is they're not cold. Each snowflake lands on my bare skin (when did I lose my clothes?) and melts into a point of heat that spreads outward like a caress. At the end of this impossible hall stands a throne carved from glacier ice, throbbing with a slow, steady rhythm. A heartbeat. Not mine—but one that calls to mine, pulling at something deep inside me.

Someone sits on that throne, hidden in shadow despite all the brightness. I don't need to see his face. I know it's him. Cadeyrn. He's waiting for me—has been waiting, maybe for centuries. Patient as only immortals can be. I take a step toward him, then another. I should be running the other way, but in this dream, I can admit what I want. What I need.

Before I reach him, everything dissolves, the scene changing. Now I'm lying on a bed made of ice that somehow feels warm against my bare back. Dark hands with frost rimming the fingertips are touching me everywhere, tracing patterns that match the frost on my skin. I arch into those touches, shameless in a way I'd never allow myself awake. A mouth—hot, so unexpectedly hot—claims mine in a bruising kiss, then starts moving lower. Down my throat, where my pulse hammers frantically. Across my breasts, where my nipples tighten almost painfully. Over my stomach, which quivers under that demanding mouth. Lower still, toward the molten core between my thighs that's practically screaming for attention.

I wake with a gasp, my whole body shaking, hovering right on the edge of an orgasm that isn't coming. Sweat soaks my clothes, my hair, everything, despite the cool night air. The emptiness inside me has turned into a gnawing, hollow ache so intense I have to bite my lip hard enough to draw blood just to keep from crying out and giving away my position.

"Shit, shit, shit," I pant, pressing the heel of my hand between my legs, giving myself just enough pressure to take the sharpest edge off. It doesn't help much.

Red moonlight seeps through the gaps in the roots above me, painting everything in sick bloody light. I raise my arm to push sweaty hair off my face and then freeze, staring in horror. The cillae have spread while I slept—they now reach almost to my shoulder, delicate swirling patterns that look exactly like what I just saw in my dream. Too exact to be coincidence.

"What the fuck are you doing to me?" I whisper into the darkness, not even sure who I'm talking to—the Winter Prince who's somehow marking me from a distance? The Hunt itself? My own traitorous body that's practically begging to be claimed?

Nobody answers me, of course, but the forest around me rustles and shifts, like it's thinking about it.

I force myself to breathe through the lingering effects of the dream, focusing on practical matters rather than the desperate needs of flesh. The vial from The Survivor rests secure against my heart. The map showing secret paths is safely tucked in my boot. I have water, some food, knowledge of the terrain ahead. I can survive this night, and the next, and the next after that.

Thirteen more days suddenly seems an eternity.

When my hands stop shaking, I emerge cautiously from my shelter. The forest has changed again, the crimson moonlight transforming familiar terrain into something alien and seductive. The silver leaves overhead seem to tremble with awareness, and the black bark of the trees gleams with hints of deep red where moonlight strikes it directly.

I consult the map by that same light, tracing the path ahead with my finger. The caves should be less than half a day's journey if I maintain steady pace—a significant "if" given my current physical state. The Survivor marked them as neutral territory, avoided by most alphas due to ancient territorial agreements that even the courts still honor.

Temporary sanctuary, if I can reach it before my heat symptoms progress beyond my ability to function.

I pack my few belongings and orient myself northward, using the stars visible through breaks in the canopy. Despite the early hour—still long before dawn—I don’t dare to remain in one place too long. The sounds of pursuit have grown closer during my brief rest, howls and calls that communicate information between hunting alphas.

Then I hear it—one howl rising above all the others. Deeper. More commanding. It vibrates with harmonics that seem to resonate in my very bones, calling to something primitive inside me. The Winter Prince, calling to his prey. To me.

The sound is everywhere and nowhere, impossible to run from. It bypasses all my carefully constructed defenses and speaks directly to the omega I've kept locked away for years. My body's response is instant and humiliating—my knees go weak, wetness floods between my thighs, and a pathetic little whimper rises in my throat before I can stop it.

I choke it back, absolutely furious. "Not yours," I snarl through clenched teeth, digging my nails into my palms until they break skin. "Not anyone's. Fuck you."

Even as the words leave my mouth, I know I'm lying to myself. Something's changed tonight under this blood-red moon. These cillae crawling up my arm aren't just pretty designs—they're a claiming mark, as real as any bite. He's marked me from a distance somehow, the way a normal alpha would mark with teeth and scent.

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