Page 128 of Run Little Omega

I believe him. Despite everything—the centuries of complicity in court atrocities, the breaking of Hunt protocols, the secrets kept—I believe this promise. Perhaps because I've seen him kill his own court physician without hesitation. Perhaps because our claiming bond carries the truth of his intentions.

Or perhaps because I have no better option.

"How soon?" I ask, turning back to face him.

Relief flickers briefly across his features. "Tonight," he says. "We'll travel through the mountain pass after sunset. Court patrols are thinnest then, and we can access the palace through passageways unknown to most of the court."

I nod, resting both hands on my swollen abdomen where four distinct lives pulse with Wild Magic. "Then we have preparations to make."

The day passes in a blur of activity. Cadeyrn sketches rough maps of the Winter Palace's layout, identifying potential safe areas and escape routes. The Hound disappears for hours, returning with supplies stolen from a mountain village—warmer clothing, dried meat, a small knife I can conceal in my boot.

"You'll need to know certain protocols," Cadeyrn tells me as the sun begins its descent behind the mountains. "Ways to move, to speak, to present yourself that will draw minimal attention."

I raise an eyebrow, gesturing to my obviously pregnant form. "I rather think I'll stand out regardless."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Pregnant omegas are not unknown in the Winter Court, though they're typically kept away from public areas. If we're stopped, you'll be my claimed property, being transported to the breeding chambers for assessment."

The words send an involuntary shiver down my spine—a reminder of the world we're about to enter, where omegas remain possessions rather than people. A world Cadeyrn was part of for centuries.

"And how should your 'property' behave?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

His expression sobers. "Head bowed. Eyes down. Speak only when directly addressed, and then with formal deference." He hesitates, then adds, "I know what I'm asking. I know how it counters everything you are. But it may be necessary for survival."

I want to argue, to rail against the humiliation of such performance. But the stakes are too high for pride. Four lives depend on my ability to navigate this hostile territory.

"Teach me," I say simply.

For the next hour, he demonstrates court gestures and phrases, the precise angle at which an omega keeps their head in the presence of Winter nobility, the formal responses to different ranks of address. I practice until the movements become fluid, though I can't help adding my own commentary.

"So basically, I'm supposed to act like I have no thoughts in my head beyond 'Yes, Alpha' and 'No, Alpha'?" I ask, demonstrating the proper way to accept a command with downcast eyes.

"Essentially, yes." There's a slight quirk to his mouth that might almost be amusement. "Think of it as a performance. A role you play to survive."

"A terrible role in a terrible play," I mutter, but continue practicing. When I misstep during a particularly complex greeting sequence, Cadeyrn's hands settle on my waist to correct my posture. The touch lingers longer than necessary, his thumbs making small circles against the small of my back where the ache is worst.

"Better," he murmurs, his breath cool against my ear. "But relax your shoulders. Court omegas are trained to move with fluid grace, not tension."

"Hard to be graceful when you're carrying four bowling balls," I grumble, but I let him guide my movements, acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. The babies choose that moment to shift enthusiastically, and Cadeyrn's hands still against my sides.

"They're active today," he says, wonder creeping into his voice.

Before I can think better of it, I take his hand and press it directly against the spot where the most vigorous movement centers. "This one's the troublemaker. Always punching my kidneys."

His palm spreads wide against the curve of my belly, cillae briefly visible beneath the masking salve as he connects with the tiny lives inside. For a moment, something shifts in our claiming bond—a surge of protectiveness and possessiveness so intense it steals my breath. His eyes meet mine, and the air between us charges with something I'm not ready to name.

"The effect lasts approximately six hours," Cadeyrn says. "We'll need to reapply regularly once inside the palace."

The Hound returns from a final scouting expedition, his expression unusually somber. "The main court forces have withdrawn from the mountains," he reports. "They're consolidating around the Winter Palace."

Cadeyrn and I exchange a glance. "They know," I say.

"They suspect," he corrects. "They've likely realized we're no longer in the heart-tree sanctuary, but they can't be certain of our destination."

"Or they're setting a trap," The Hound counters.

The possibility hangs between us, undeniable and terrifying. We could be walking directly into an ambush, delivering ourselves into the hands of those who would kill or dissect our children for their unprecedented magical potential.

Yet we have no better option. My body cannot sustain this pregnancy indefinitely. The magical drain increases daily as the quadruplets grow, their combined power already testing the limits of what I can provide.

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