Page 45 of Run Little Omega

CHAPTER18

POV: Briar

A twig snapsin the darkness.

I freeze mid-step, my sensing sharpening toward the sound. Not accidental—too deliberate, too precisely timed. A message, not a mistake.

I'm being watched.

The crimson moon hangs bloated and obscene above the forest canopy, its bloodred light filtering through silver leaves to paint everything in shades of violence. The heat that's been building inside me all day has reached a fevered peak, my skin hypersensitive to even the slightest brush of fabric or breeze.

"I know you're there," I say into the darkness, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the chaos raging within my body. "You might as well show yourself."

Silence answers me—the unnatural quiet of a forest holding its breath. Even the night insects have gone still, as though afraid to draw attention from whatever lurks in the shadows. The silver bracelet pulses against my wrist, cillae spreading beneath my sleeve as if responding to some unseen presence.

I've felt eyes on me for hours—watching, assessing, following my every move with predatory patience. At first, I thought it might be another alpha drawn by my increasingly potent scent. But this feels different. More focused. More deliberate.

I move carefully between moonlit trees, each step placed with care despite the distracting warmth pooling in my core. The forest floor whispers beneath my boots, silver-edged leaves crackling. I'm not trying to flee—not really. Part of me wants to confront whatever stalks me through this endless night.

A shadow shifts between distant trunks—too fluid to be natural, too graceful to be human. I turn sharply, catching the briefest glimpse before it melts back into darkness.

My breath catches in my throat.

Prince Cadeyrn has changed.

The fae royal I glimpsed at the Gathering Circle—all cold beauty and aristocratic restraint—has transformed into something else entirely. His lean frame has filled out dramatically, powerful muscles straining against what little clothing he still wears. Moonlight catches on bare skin that seems to glow with inner light, the marble pallor of Winter Court now warmed to something almost alive.

But it's his face that stops my heart. Those perfect features have sharpened, cheekbones more pronounced, jaw more defined. His hair, once smoothly bound, now falls in a wild tumble around shoulders that have broadened impossibly in the days since the Hunt began. And his eyes—gods, his eyes—ice-blue irises nearly consumed by dilated pupils that fix on me with hungry intensity.

The Winter Prince has entered rut.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. Seven centuries of perfect control, of legendary restraint that made him immune to omega influence—shattered. By what? By whom?

By me?

The forest whispers confirmation as he moves again, circling my position with predatory grace. Ice trails from his fingertips like living extensions of his will, frost blooming on vegetation wherever he passes. His movements hold barely restrained violence, the coiled tension of a predator preparing to strike.

Every rational instinct screams at me to run, to use the forest paths and hiding places that have kept me safe so far. But my body betrays me with visceral response—warmth gathering between my thighs, skin flushing with want that has nothing to do with my rational mind and everything to do with the omega nature I've denied for eleven years.

I back away slowly, maintaining eye contact with the shadow stalking me through the trees. "Stay back," I warn, though my voice lacks conviction. "I don't belong to you or any alpha."

A laugh tears from his throat, raw and savage. "Look at you," he growls, the refined court accent stripped from his voice, replaced by something primal. "Standing there, pretending you don't feel it too."

When he steps into a shaft of crimson moonlight, I see him fully for the first time since the Gathering Circle. The transformation is more dramatic than I'd first realized. Where once he projected cold detachment, now raw power emanates from him in palpable waves. The simple tunic he wears—torn at shoulder and collar—reveals cillae identical to those spreading across my skin, glowing with the same blue-white light.

“Ten days," he snarls, circling closer. “Ten days of your scent in my blood like a fever. Ten days killing anyone who dares look at what's mine." His teeth gleam sharp in the moonlight. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me, little omega?"

I should be terrified. I should be running. Instead, I stand my ground, some deeper instinct overriding both fear and training. "I didn't do anything to you."

"Liar." The word cuts through the night. "You've ruined me. Centuries of control—gone. My power, my position, my immortality—all compromised because I can't get the scent of you out of my head." His hands clench at his sides, ice crystals forming in the air around him. "I should hate you for it."

The cillae on my skin pulse in time with my racing heart. "You've been marking me," I accuse, pushing back my sleeve to reveal the crystalline patterns spreading up my arm. "Claiming me without touching me."

"Yes." No denial, no justification. Just raw admission that sends an unwelcome thrill down my spine. "Every alpha in this forest needs to know you're mine, even if I haven't taken you. Yet."

That single word—yet—hangs between us, laden with dark promise.

He takes another step closer, moonlight illuminating him completely. I can see now how his transformation extends beyond the surface—his skin bears strange runes, glowing the same blue-white as the cillae. Power emanates from him in waves I can almost see, bending reality around his presence.

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