Page 138 of Run Little Omega

"Let me guess—that 'modern understanding' conveniently supports current power structures," I say, approaching the nearest shelf with undisguised curiosity.

"Perceptive," she murmurs, following behind me. "The court physicians have their own medical texts, carefully curated to include only approved knowledge. But these..." Her hand sweeps to encompass the vast collection. "These contain truths that predate court divisions."

I run my fingers along the spines of several ancient tomes, surprised to find them warm to the touch despite the frigid surroundings. A book with a pale blue cover etched with cillae seems to pulse beneath my touch, calling to me. Without thinking, I pull it from the shelf.

The tome falls open to illustrations that make heat rise in my cheeks. Unlike the clinical medical texts I'd expected, these depict the original Wild Hunt in explicit detail. An alpha in full rut chases an omega in heat through a moonlit forest, his powerful body transformed by primal need. The next image shows their claiming—the omega on hands and knees, back arched in submission, the alpha mounted behind her with teeth bared at her neck. The alpha's knot is clearly visible, binding them together while cillae spiral across both their bodies in matching rhythms.

What strikes me most isn't the explicit nature of the images—it's the expressions captured on both faces. The omega's features show not fear but ecstasy, her submission clearly willing, even eager. The alpha's possessiveness is protective rather than destructive. A primal dance of dominance and yielding, intense and raw but without cruelty.

I turn the page and find more explicit depictions—the alpha claiming the omega against a tree, pinning her wrists above her head; the omega riding the alpha, head thrown back in pleasure while his hands grip her hips with bruising force; the pair locked together by his knot, his teeth breaking the skin at her throat in a claiming bite that sends cillae spiraling across her entire body.

Beside these are ancient drawings of omega bodies nurturing fae offspring. The illustrations show an alpha claiming a pregnant omega, their bodies joined while streams of ancient power flow visibly from alpha to omega.

"This is why most omegas don't survive carrying fae children," I whisper, understanding dawning. "The magical drain is too intense without regular claiming."

"Precisely," Lysandra confirms. "For a single fae child, the drain is severe. For four..." She shakes her head, clearly still amazed by my situation. "It's unprecedented."

"The alpha's continued claiming during pregnancy replenishes the omega," I continue, studying the images with growing fascination. "But the court abandoned this practice?"

"It was deemed inefficient," Lysandra says with barely concealed distaste. "Court physicians determined it was simpler to use more omegas rather than sustain pregnancies with continued claiming. Especially as it required alphas to remain with a single omega rather than spreading their seed widely."

I stare at the illustrations, thinking of how my body has been increasingly hungry for Cadeyrn's touch these past days, how the fatigue lifts momentarily whenever he's near. "And without this..."

"The magic eventually becomes fatal," Lysandra confirms. "Modern court practice focuses on extracting viable offspring before omega death rather than preventing that death altogether."

"Barbaric," I mutter, but my attention remains fixed on the illustrations, a growing heat pooling low in my belly. The claiming bond with Cadeyrn pulses in response, as if my body recognizes what it needs even before my mind fully comprehends.

I continue turning pages, finding detailed explanations of how omega scent glands evolved to trigger their paired alpha's rut again during pregnancy. The resulting claiming involved a different kind of alpha seed—one full of raw magical power that replenished the omega rather than creating new life.

The library door opens, and Cadeyrn strides in, cillae pulsing with agitation. He stops short at the sight of us bent over the ancient text.

"I thought I asked you to stay in our quarters," he says, his gaze fixed on me.

"You did," I acknowledge cheerfully. "I decided this was more interesting."

For a moment, I think he might actually be angry. Then his expression softens into that almost-smile that makes something flutter in my chest.

"I should have known better than to expect compliance," he says, crossing to where I stand. His hand settles at the small of my back, a gesture that's becoming familiar. "The council session has adjourned with no resolution. Elder Iris Bloom continues to press for our surrender, while Lord Frostbaine makes thinly veiled threats about omega insurrection."

His eyes drop to the book still open before me, taking in the explicit illustrations. I feel his body go still beside me, cillae brightening with sudden realization.

"We need to move forward with securing the birth chambers tonight," he says, voice tight with new urgency. "Court physicians loyal to Lord Frostbaine have been making unauthorized modifications to siphon magical discharge during birth."

"I've seen them," Lysandra confirms. "If Briar delivers in those chambers as currently configured, the ancient power flowing through the little ones would be drained into containment crystals for court use."

The little ones shift again, and I wince as one of them presses against my spine. Cadeyrn notices immediately, his arm sliding around my waist to support me. His eyes are drawn again to the illustrations, understanding darkening his features.

"The alpha power during the carrying," he murmurs. "It's different from that during initial breeding."

"During rut-induced claiming of a pregnant omega, the alpha produces pure magical essence rather than reproductive material," Lysandra explains clinically. "It replenishes what the fae offspring draw from their mother."

I can't meet Cadeyrn's eyes as the implications sink in. My body's growing hunger for his touch these past days hasn't just been inconvenient biology or confusing emotions—it's been survival instinct.

"I've been an idiot," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Cadeyrn's hand travels from my back to my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone in a gesture so tender it momentarily steals my breath. "No," he says softly. "You had every reason to keep your distance after what you learned."

But I know the truth—I've been denying myself his touch partly out of lingering anger, yes, but also out of stubborn pride. Even as my body grew heavier with his children, even as forgiveness began taking root in my heart, I'd resisted the natural progression of our bond out of some misguided sense that yielding to pleasure meant yielding the moral high ground.