Page 42 of Run Little Omega

"No," he says, something like disgust entering his voice. "You can't. You've been too thoroughly shaped, too perfectly molded. There's nothing real left to break." His hand moves to her flat abdomen, pressing against it with clinical detachment. "The child will be strong, at least. That's something."

I watch, paralyzed by conflicting instincts, as minutes stretch into what feels like hours. The knot slowly recedes, their bodies separating with a wet sound that makes my stomach clench. Flora lies motionless, claimed and used, blood still seeping from the constellation of bite marks that cover her upper body like a grotesque map.

The alpha stands, adjusting his leather breeches with casual indifference. He studies Flora's prone form with open disappointment, head tilted as though assessing livestock.

"Six generations of selective breeding," he mutters, voice rough from exertion. "And this is the result? An omega who surrenders before the hunt even begins?" He spits on the ground beside her. "Summer Court deserves better breeding stock."

Flora's violet eyes open, confusion and lingering fear plainly visible. The alpha was acting in ways no omega like her was trained to expect—erratic, resentful, and most of all, sadistic and cruel.

He lifts his head suddenly, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. His eyes narrow, head turning slowly toward my hiding place.

"What have we here?" he murmurs, a slow smile spreading across his blood-flecked lips. "Something fresher. Something... untamed."

He's sensed me. My heat-scent, growing stronger by the minute, has betrayed my position.

I tense, preparing to run even though I know there’s no point. At least I have my knife, small and makeshift, which I can use to maim him while he’s knotted inside me, or maybe even before that moment if I’m lucky. It won’t save me, but it’s better to go down fighting than surrender—Flora’s suffering is proof of that.

The alpha takes one step toward me, then another, his expression shifting from disappointment to fresh hunger. His shaft, impossibly, begins to swell again, still coated with evidence of his previous claiming.

"Come out, little one," he croons. "You've watched our play. Now it's your turn. I smell no training on you—just raw, untapped potential." His smile widens, revealing teeth still stained with Flora's blood. "Show me how you fight."

What happens next occurs so quickly I barely process the sequence. One moment the alpha is stalking toward me, the next he stops mid-stride, his expression shifting from predatory confidence to confusion. He looks down just as the ground beneath him erupts.

An ice formation—jagged and massive—punches up through the forest floor. It impales him in a single violent thrust, lifting him several feet into the air before branching outward inside his body. Blood fountains from his mouth as ice spears burst through his chest, his abdomen, his throat. His limbs twitch in death spasms, eyes wide with shock as the life drains out of him.

The ice holds him suspended above the clearing, a grotesque trophy displayed for any who might enter this territory. Frost spreads across the ground from the center, creating patterns that spell out a clear warning:Mine. Trespass and die.

I scramble backward, gasping for breath. This isn't just the elimination of competition. This is a message—a declaration of exclusive claim that violates the most fundamental rules of the Hunt. Traditionally, omegas can be pursued by any alpha who catches their scent. This display announces that one omega—me—has been declared exclusive territory.

The brutality of it should revolt me. Instead, I feel a disturbing flutter of... what? Relief? Satisfaction? Whatever emotion rises in response to this violent possessiveness, it belongs to the omega I've denied being for eleven years, not to the blacksmith's apprentice who values her independence above all else.

My pulse races with conflicted feelings as I force myself to my feet. Flora still lies on the ground, staring at her claimer's suspended corpse with stunned disbelief. I can't leave her like this.

I approach cautiously, hands raised to show I mean no harm. "Can you stand?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

She flinches at my voice, violet eyes darting to mine with animal wariness. Recognition dawns slowly. "Willow?" she whispers, using the name I still wear thanks to the failing glamour.

"We need to move," I tell her, helping her to her feet. "Now."

Flora stumbles as she stands, her legs barely supporting her weight. Blood seeps from the constellation of bite marks across her shoulders and neck, staining what remains of her white shift. I wrap my arm around her waist, taking as much of her weight as I can. Together, we hobble away from the clearing and the grotesque ice sculpture that was once her claimer.

"Where are we going?" she asks, her voice thin and distant.

"Somewhere safe." I guide her toward a stream I spotted earlier on the Survivor's map. "We need to clean those wounds first."

The narrow creek bubbles over smooth stones, the water clear and cold. I help Flora sit on a moss-covered boulder at the water's edge and tear strips from the bottom of my shift to use as bandages.

"This might sting," I warn before dipping the first strip into the cold water.

As I clean the bite marks, Flora watches me with a strange mixture of confusion and wonder. "Why are you helping me? We're prey for them. Coming together like this, outside the havens, only puts a target on your back.”

"That's what they want us to believe." I wring out a bloody cloth and dip a fresh one. "But I refuse to play by their rules."

She winces as I press a cold cloth to a particularly deep bite on her shoulder. "You don't understand. I was bred for this—six generations of careful selection to produce the perfect omega for the courts." Her voice holds no pride, just resigned acceptance. "And I still failed. He found me wanting."

"You didn't fail," I tell her firmly. "He's the monster, not you."

Flora shakes her head, a sad smile touching her lips. "In the Hunt, there are no monsters. Only nature, red in tooth and claw." She gestures toward the distant ice spear still visible through the trees. "Though I've never seen anything like that before. The Winter Prince hasn't claimed anyone in centuries. He's never even entered rut."

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