Page 47 of Run Little Omega

"What happens now?" I ask, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

His eyes burn into mine, hunger and resentment warring in their depths. "Now the Hunt continues. You run. I follow." His voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries perfectly to my ears. "But know this, copper-haired deceiver—every step you take only makes my eventual claiming sweeter."

The threat—or promise—in his words strikes some primal chord within me. Not just omega responding to alpha command, but prey acknowledging worthy predator. For the first time since entering the Bloodmoon Forest, I feel something beyond fear or determination.

Anticipation.

My hand finds the iron token in my pocket, thumb tracing its protective runes. "And if I fight you?"

His smile is all teeth, elongated canines catching the moonlight. "Then I'll enjoy subduing you." He steps back, deliberately creating distance between us. "Run now, little omega. Use whatever tricks you've learned to delay the inevitable. It changes nothing."

With that, he melts back into the forest shadows. I can still feel him at the edges of my awareness—a predator granting temporary reprieve.

I release a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, my legs finally giving way as I slide down the trunk of the tree behind me. The heat that built during our confrontation ebbs slightly, though it remains a constant throb of need beneath my skin.

The Winter Prince has entered rut, apparently for the first time in his immortal existence, and the experience has stripped away centuries of civilization to reveal something ancient and untamed beneath. More shocking still is the realization that I've somehow caused this transformation—that something in my blood or scent or being has awakened what seven centuries of Hunt participation couldn't touch.

I should feel terror at the power stalking me through these endless woods. I should use every skill and trick I possess to evade his pursuit. Instead, treacherous curiosity winds through my fear—a dangerous fascination with the being who sees me, truly sees me, beneath all disguises.

"Not tonight," I whisper to myself, echoing his promise as I gather my strength to continue. "But soon."

The confrontation approaches—inevitable as the crimson moon's cycle. Not a question of if, but when and how the Winter Prince will finally claim his chosen prey. The most disturbing realization of all is how increasingly uncertain I am about whether I'll fight that claiming when it comes.

The forest watches silently as I push myself to my feet and continue my journey, the crimson moon overhead bearing witness.

CHAPTER19

POV: Briar

Heat takesme like a forge fire—not the sudden flare of kindling catching, but the methodical, relentless build that turns solid metal molten.

The morning after my encounter with Cadeyrn dawns in waves of crimson and gold, the forest painted in hues that echo the rising temperature beneath my skin. I wake curled against the base of an ancient blackthorn, my clothes damp with sweat despite the cool morning air. Every inch of my body feels wrong—as if someone's taken a hammer to me, pounding all my nerve endings to the surface.

This isn't the gradual warming I've experienced until now. This is full heat—the biological imperative I've denied for eleven years finally unleashed, collecting its due with ruthless interest.

"Get up," I tell myself, voice sandpaper-rough from a night of restless dreams filled with ice-blue eyes and frost-touched skin. "Move. Now."

My body rebels instantly. As I try to stand, my legs buckle and shake, refusing to support my weight. A viscous warmth gathers uncomfortably between my thighs, making the fabric of my leggings cling in ways that announce my condition to any passing alpha. The hollow sensation deep in my core that began as mere discomfort has transformed into a vacuum that demands to be filled.

I grit my teeth and force myself upright, using the tree for support. The bark beneath my palm scrapes against me—each ridge and furrow distinct. When I finally manage to stand, the world tilts drunkenly around me, colors bleeding at the edges, scents so potent they're nearly visible.

The forest has transformed overnight—or perhaps it's my senses that have changed, heightened beyond human limitation. Silver leaves overhead gleam with the metallic luster of polished blades. The earth exhales aromas with each step—decay and growth and old magic twisting together. Even the air tastes different—richer, heavier, charged with information my mind struggles to process.

I catch my reflection in a dew-covered leaf and confirm my worst fear. The glamour spell flickers like a dying candle, my true copper hair breaking through Willow's platinum illusion before the magic struggles to reassert itself. My eyes flash between borrowed green and natural amber-gold, the spell’s deterioration visible even though the Hunt is only a little over halfway through.

"Just a little longer," I whisper to the failing spell. Iron doesn't beg, but here I am, pleading with magic as if it might listen.

Unbidden, memory surfaces—myself at twelve, curled into a tight ball beneath Fergus's workbench, terrified of the strange heat coursing through my blood. My first heat struck without warning, just days after my mother fell ill with the wasting sickness that would claim her within the week.

I had no idea what was happening to me. Mother had begun explaining omega biology—her gentle voice outlining changes that might someday come—but illness took her before she could properly prepare me. I only knew that something profound and frightening was transforming me from the inside.

Fergus found me there, his broad smith's face creased with concern.

"Ah, girl," he'd said, crouching to meet my eyes. "So that's how it is."

The kindness in his voice cracked something inside me. "What's happening?" I'd asked through confused tears. "I'm burning up."

"You're presenting as omega," he explained with smith's directness. "Your body's preparing itself for..." He'd hesitated, his discomfort evident. "For claiming. For bearing."

---