Page 64 of Run Little Omega

I don't answer immediately, too overwhelmed by sensation and connection to form coherent words. He pulses inside me, releasing another flood of warmth that makes me gasp and tighten around him.

"That's it," he encourages, one hand sliding between our bodies to circle my swollen clit. "Come on my knot again like the hungry little omega you are. Milk every drop of cum from my cock."

His skilled touch coaxes another release from my pussy with embarrassing ease. I arch beneath him, spasming around his knot in rhythmic waves that wring a guttural sound from his throat.

"Fuck, your pussy squeezes me so perfectly when you come," he groans, his cock jerking inside me as another wave of cum fills me. "I could stay buried in this sweet cunt forever, feeling how much you want me, how badly you need my body.”

When I can finally speak, my voice emerges raw from cries torn from my throat. "This doesn't change anything. I still hate what the Hunt represents."

"As do I." His admission surprises me again. "The Hunt as it exists now is corruption of something sacred. The courts have perverted its purpose for centuries."

"Then why participate?" I ask, genuinely curious despite our intimate position, despite still being joined.

"Politics. Obligation." His hand traces idle patterns on my skin, frost following his fingertips in delicate swirls. "And now... you."

The simple word shouldn't affect me as it does. I turn my face away, unwilling to let him see whatever shows in my expression.

"The chase will continue," he says after long moments of silence. “Eight more days of Hunt. But something has changed between us, whether you acknowledge it or not."

I can't deny the truth of his words, not while still joined to him, not with the bond between us growing stronger with each shared heartbeat. Whatever this is—this connection, this claiming, this ritual we've awakened—has transformed us both in ways I'm only beginning to understand.

"Tell me your name," he murmurs, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. "Your real name, not the one you borrowed."

I hesitate, the request piercing through post-claiming haze with surprising clarity. Names hold power, especially with the fae. To give him my true name feels like surrendering the last piece of myself I've managed to keep separate from this madness.

"Why?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

His eyes—calmer now, the ice-blue reclaiming territory from rut-black pupils—study my face with unexpected thoughtfulness. "Because I want something of you freely given, not taken."

The irony isn't lost on me—asking for voluntary surrender while still locked inside me, his seed working deep within me. Yet something in his request resonates with whatever ancient magic we've awakened between us. The ritual demands balance.

"Briar," I whisper, the syllables feeling strange on my tongue after days of answering to another's name. "My name is Briar."

"Briar," he repeats, testing the sound, savoring the way it forms in his mouth. "A plant with sharp defenses and unexpected beauty. It suits you."

Before I can form a response, he leans down and captures my lips with his. The gentleness of it startles me more than any aggression could have. This isn't the bruising claim of an alpha in rut but something softer, almost reverent—his mouth moving against mine with deliberate tenderness that makes my chest ache with confused longing.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips, requesting rather than demanding entrance. When I yield—because how can I not?—he deepens the kiss with a slow thoroughness that seems to map every secret corner of my mouth, as if memorizing the taste of my surrender.

When he finally pulls back, I'm breathing as hard as I did during the claiming itself, though for entirely different reasons. The naked vulnerability in that kiss terrifies me far more than any display of dominance.

When his knot finally recedes enough to allow us to separate, the loss feels profound despite my exhaustion. A rush of our combined fluids follows, his cum mixed with my own arousal pouring down in rivulets that coat my thighs. I should feel degraded, used, but instead experience a strange satisfaction—primal and raw—at being so thoroughly marked, my pussy sore and dripping with evidence of his possession.

Cadeyrn studies me with curious intensity as he helps me sit up, his hands surprisingly gentle against skin that will soon show bruises from his grip. "You took me better this time," he observes, something like approval warming his voice. "Your body adapts quickly."

"Don't sound so pleased about it," I mutter, though the words lack conviction. We both know the pleasure that tore through me—not just from the physical sensation but from the completion it represents, the fulfillment of something ancient and necessary.

He creates new clothing for me with a casual gesture, frost crystals spinning from his fingertips to weave into fabric that settles against my skin like liquid moonlight. The garment covers me completely yet feels more revealing than nakedness—a visible sign of his possession, his magic literally wrapped around my body.

"Tomorrow," he says as darkness deepens around us, "we do this again."

Not a question this time. A statement of fact, of inevitability. The claiming has established a rhythm that will continue throughout the Hunt's traditional duration. Each day: chase, capture, claiming. Each night: the enforced intimacy of the knot, the unexpected sharing of memories and sensations that follows.

"And if I don't run?" I ask, testing boundaries.

His smile is all teeth, predatory and confident. "You will." He traces the claiming bite on my neck, sending aftershocks of pleasure-pain radiating through me. "Just as I will chase. It's what we are now."

I watch him gather himself to leave, his transformed body magnificent even in the fading light. As he vanishes between the trees, the claiming bond stretches between us, a constant reminder of the connection we now share.

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