Page 49 of Run Little Omega

I struggle to maintain some fragment of rational thought, some piece of the blacksmith's apprentice who valued independence above all else. But that self seems increasingly distant, separated from me by a gulf of raw sensation. The omega I've denied for eleven years rises to the surface, responding to the Hunt's ancient magic with instincts older than civilization.

"No," I growl, pressing my palms flat against the ground, focusing on the texture of earth and leaves beneath my fingers. "I am not just omega. I am Briar Ellis. I am strength and fire and iron will."

But my words ring hollow even to my own ears. My body trembles with need, sweat soaking my shift despite the cool shadows beneath the blackthorn. Desperation fills my mouth with a metallic taste, all my carefully laid plans dissolving in the crucible of heat.

The forest whispers around me, silver leaves rustling with secrets just beyond human understanding. I sense movement at the clearing's edge—whether it’s real or a heat-induced hallucination, I can’t even tell. My vision blurs with unshed tears of frustration, the world swimming in and out of focus as I fight to maintain control of a body determined to surrender.

The iron token in my pocket presses against my thigh, its protective magic offering minimal comfort against the biological storm raging through me. I clutch it like a lifeline, a reminder of why I came to this forest—to save Willow, to defy tradition, to prove that omegas are more than just vessels for alphas.

But even as I cling to these ideas, another truth emerges from the depths of my being. Part of me—a growing, insistent part—wants to be found. Wants strong hands and sharp teeth and the relief of surrender. The thought terrifies me more than any alpha's pursuit.

"I won't break," I tell myself, the words a desperate mantra. "I won't surrender. I won't become what they want me to be."

But even as the declaration leaves my lips, I know I’m fighting a losing battle.

The crimson moon will rise again tonight, full and bloated in the darkening sky. And with it, my heat will reach its peak, stripping away the last scraps of control. Whatever happens in this forest will happen to me soon—tonight, perhaps, when moon and magic align to create perfect conditions for the claiming I've fought so hard to avoid.

I gather what strength remains, forcing myself to stand despite legs that tremble like new-forged metal cooling too quickly. The clearing spins around me as I rise, my vision narrowing to pinpoints before expanding again. Every sensation amplifies—the whisper of leaves beneath my boots sounds like a hammer on an anvil, the scent of blackthorn sap fills my lungs like forge smoke, the brush of fabric against my chest sends sparks cascading down my spine.

Still, I place one foot before the other, stubborn determination driving me forward. The forest watches my struggle with ancient patience, tree branches shifting to clear an unambiguous path before me. Northwest still, always northwest, toward whatever destiny the Bloodmoon Forest has decided for me.

"I choose my own fate," I mutter, even as I follow the path laid out. "Even if I follow where you lead, the choice to surrender remains mine."

The forest offers no contradiction, silver leaves rustling in what almost sounds like amusement. It knows what I refuse to acknowledge—that choice becomes increasingly theoretical with each wave of heat that crashes through me. That biology and magic together form a tide too powerful for mere human will to resist indefinitely.

As I leave the ancient clearing behind, the blackthorn's red sap drips faster from its bark, staining the silver leaves beneath with drops that look unsettlingly like blood. A sacrifice made or a sacrifice to come—I can't be sure. All I know is that something primal and irreversible has been set in motion, a ritual older than courts or kingdoms or the artificial divisions that separate omega from alpha, human from fae.

The Hunt continues. I run, though each step costs more than the last. And somewhere in this endless forest, the Winter Prince follows, drawn by instincts as powerful and unwanted as my own.

Tonight, when the crimson moon reaches its zenith, our paths will cross again. And what happens then will be written in frost and fire, in blood and bone, in the ancient magic that remembers what our kinds have forgotten.

CHAPTER20

POV: Briar

The clearing appearsin front of me like an ancient forge circle—a perfect ring surrounded by blackthorns twisted into nightmare shapes. I stagger to a halt, lungs burning as if I've been working the bellows for days without rest.

Fuck, it hurts. Eleven days of running, of fighting this heat, and now it's consuming me from within. My skin radiates like iron just pulled from the fire, my leggings soaked through with evidence of my body's betrayal. Every heartbeat pulses between my legs, each one another hammer striking the same tender spot.

At the clearing's center stands a massive blackthorn tree, its bark black as coal at midnight. Red sap oozes from deep cracks like blood from a wounded beast, viscous and obscene. The crimson moon hangs overhead like some bloated, watchful eye, painting everything in the color of fresh-spilled iron.

Another wave hits me—not gradual like before but a tsunami of need that drives me to my knees. I fall hard, palms scraping against silver leaves that curl toward me like grasping fingers. The hollowness inside me has carved me out completely, like a mold waiting desperately to be filled.

"Shit," I hiss through clenched teeth, fighting to stand again, legs wobbling like poorly forged blades.

The cillae from that damned bracelet have spread again, covering my entire arm in blue-white light that pulses in time with my frantic heart. With each throb, heat surges through me, the cruel magic of the Hunt amplifying what should be natural into something torturous, like a smith deliberately overheating metal until it's one degree from ruin.

My hand instinctively reaches for the iron token tucked into the waistband of my tattered leggings. I clutch it like a talisman, its edge biting into my palm. My other hand drops to my thigh, fingers finding the makeshift knife I fashioned from a rusted blade and tree branch, bound with strips torn from my shift. Meager protection against what's coming, but I won't go down without a fight.

The air shifts suddenly, growing colder despite the fever burning through me. I don't need to look up to know he's here. My body already knows, the traitorous thing, my inner forge flaring hotter at his proximity.

"Well, look who finally showed up," I force out, hating how my voice shakes and my legs tremble.

Prince Cadeyrn steps from between the trees, and holy fucking hell, he's transformed even further since our moonlight confrontation. He was disturbing then—but now? He's feral, reforged into something barely recognizable.

His frame has expanded beyond what should be possible, muscles bulging as if someone hammered them into shape from living marble. What little remains of his clothing hangs in tatters, barely clinging to a body that's shed all pretense of civilization. Veins stand out like rivers of blue fire along his arms and chest, tracing cillae identical to those covering my skin. His marble-white body now flushes with violent vitality, sweat gleaming on skin that radiates power and heat despite the winter chill he brings—like hot metal that refuses to cool.

But it's his eyes—gods, his eyes. The ice-blue has been completely consumed by massive black pupils, leaving only the thinnest ring of color around abysses of hunger. Nothing remains of calculation or nobility—only primal, savage need fixed entirely on me.

---