Page 43 of Run Little Omega

"Well, he's entering something now," I mutter, securing the last improvised bandage. "And I'd rather not be around when he decides to do more than just kill his competition."

I help Flora to her feet again, steadier now after rest and basic care. "There's a haven about two miles southeast," I tell her, pointing toward a distant ridge. "Can you make it that far?"

She nods, determination replacing some of the shock in her violet eyes. "Yes. I know the markers. I can find it."

"Good." I hand her the remaining strips of cloth and what's left of my herbal supplies—barely enough for one more dose. "Take these. The herbs will help with pain and keep infection at bay."

"You're not coming with me?" Surprise colors her voice.

I shake my head, glancing northward toward the forest's heart. "No. I have another path to follow."

"The havens are safe," she argues, though without much conviction. "At least safer than out here."

"Maybe for you." I adjust my meager pack on my shoulders. "But I'm being hunted specifically. I'd just bring danger to anyone near me."

Flora studies me with new understanding. "It's you he wants. The Winter Prince."

I don't confirm or deny, but my silence is answer enough.

"Be careful, Willow," she says, using the name she believes is mine. "The Prince isn't like other alphas. He's ancient, patient. If he's broken centuries of tradition for you..." She trails off, leaving the implication hanging in the air between us.

"I know." I step back, already mapping my route in my mind. "Good luck, Flora."

"And to you." She turns toward the southeast ridge, then pauses. "If you survive this, find me afterward. I want to know how the story ends."

With that, we part ways—Flora toward relative safety, me toward the greatest danger of all. As I watch her figure grow smaller among the trees, I wonder if either of us will live to tell any stories when this Hunt concludes.

My breath comes faster as I retreat, a cold certainty settling in my chest. Prince Cadeyrn isn't just protecting me or marking territory—he's transforming before my eyes from the cold, controlled royal I glimpsed at the Gathering Circle into something primal and possessive beyond court politics or Hunt traditions.

And worse, my body responds to this knowledge with a fresh rush of warmth between my thighs, inner muscles clenching around emptiness. The omega in me recognizes power and wants to submit to it, regardless of what my rational mind might choose.

"No," I whisper fiercely, forcing my feet to carry me away from the grisly display. "Not happening."

I flee through the forest, no longer concerned with stealth or false trails. Pure survival instinct drives me now, though whether I'm running from the alphas who might claim me or from my own treacherous desires becomes increasingly unclear.

The afternoon stretches endlessly, my condition deteriorating with each passing hour. The herbs from the Survivor have worn off completely, leaving me vulnerable to every sensation. The fabric of my shift feels like sandpaper against hypersensitive skin. Each breath carries scents so vivid they create images in my mind—the sweet decay of forest floor, the metallic tang of fae blood, and beneath it all, the cold, clean scent of winter magic that seems to follow me regardless of direction.

By the time the sun begins to set, I can barely maintain a straight path. My body alternates between feverish heat and strange, momentary chills that come from the Winter Court magic infecting me. The cillae have spread further up my arm, now visible whenever my neckline pulls down. They're oddly beautiful—intricate crystalline structures that glow with soft blue light when I touch them.

I stumble into a small clearing and collapse against a fallen log, my strength completely gone. The crimson moon will rise soon, accelerating my symptoms beyond any hope of control. I need shelter, somewhere to hide until the worst passes.

My reflection in a small puddle catches my attention. The glamour fails completely for several seconds, showing my true face—copper hair falling loose from its practical braid, amber eyes wide with fever-brightness, skin flushed with heat. Then Willow's appearance returns, the spell struggling to maintain itself against my body's transformation.

"What am I becoming?" I whisper to my shifting reflection.

The forest offers no answer, but the silver bracelet pulses once, sending a wave of cold relief up my arm that temporarily clears my mind. The sensation reminds me of Cadeyrn's intervention with the Huntsman—that sudden drop in temperature, the unexpected protection when I most needed it.

Is this how he tracks me? Through this connection growing between us, this magic that spreads across my skin in cillae? The thought should terrify me, but in my heat-addled state, it offers strange comfort. Someone knows exactly where I am. Someone is coming.

"No," I growl, slapping the puddle to disperse my treacherous thoughts along with my reflection. "I didn't survive eleven years in hiding to roll over for the first alpha who marks me, no matter how powerful."

I force myself to stand, to keep moving despite my body's protests. The sun sinks lower, shadows lengthening across the forest floor. I need to find shelter before full dark brings increased alpha activity. According to the Survivor's map, there should be suitable caves not far ahead—if I can maintain enough clarity to find them.

As I walk, I feel eyes on me from every direction—the forest watching, the animals observing, and somewhere beyond perception, ice-blue eyes tracking my every move. The certainty of the Winter Prince's attention should make me wary, yet I find myself standing straighter, moving with more purpose. If I'm being watched, I'll give a performance worth seeing.

"You want me," I say aloud to the silent forest, to the unseen prince I know monitors my progress. "Then come find me yourself instead of sending your magic to do the work."

The silver bracelet pulses against my wrist, almost like a response. The ice patterns glow briefly, spreading another inch up my arm as if accepting the challenge.

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