Page 147 of Run Little Omega

I think of the ancient archives, of illustrations showing the original Hunt as a sacred ritual of balance rather than a brutal breeding program. Of texts describing Wild Magic as something that flowed naturally between realms, between alpha and omega, before court hierarchy imposed rigid control.

"Like we're remembering," I murmur, thinking of how naturally the frost magic now comes to me, how it responds to emotion rather than formal training.

Cadeyrn nods, his expression thoughtful. "The little ones are part of this. Their magic..." he places his hand more firmly against my belly, "...it's not just Winter Court. Not just any court. It's something older."

A guard knocks at the chamber door, interrupting our moment of quiet contemplation. "My Prince," he calls, "Lady Lysandra requests immediate audience regarding the birth chambers."

Cadeyrn sighs, the sound surprisingly human from someone who just executed a man with his bare hand. "Tell her we'll meet her in our quarters. This conversation requires privacy."

The guard acknowledges the order and retreats. I turn back to the window, watching as court staff drag Frostbaine's frozen remains away, leaving a trail of crystallized blood across the pristine courtyard.

"He won't be the last, will he?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"No." Cadeyrn doesn't soften the truth. "The courts fear what they cannot control. What we represent. What our children will become."

"And what exactly is that?" I place both hands on my belly, feeling the little ones respond to my touch with synchronized movement.

Cadeyrn considers this, his gaze dropping to where our children grow. "The end of their world," he says finally. "And perhaps the beginning of something better."

Another crack splits the air, this one running directly beneath our feet, frost spiraling outward in patterns that match those covering our skin. The shock of it nearly throws us off balance, pushing us against each other.

Something breaks between us in that moment of contact—some final thread of restraint rendered meaningless after the brutal display of power and protection we just witnessed. Cadeyrn's eyes lock with mine, the ice-blue now threaded with gold and green, pupils expanding rapidly to swallow the color entirely.

"Mine," he growls, the word more vibration than sound.

My response isn't verbal. I grab him by his frost-patterned collar and crash my mouth against his. There's nothing gentle in this kiss—it's all teeth and tongue and primal claim. His fangs, still elongated from the magical display, slice my lower lip, the coppery tang of blood mixing with the taste of winter and wild magic on his tongue.

I bite him back just as hard, my own teeth sharper than they once were, drawing silver-blue blood that freezes as it hits my tongue. The taste is intoxicating—metal and ice and raw power—fueling something feral in me that matches his savagery kiss for kiss.

His hands—those same hands that just unmade Lord Frostbaine in the most horrific display of magical violence I've ever witnessed—tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to send sparks of pain-pleasure shooting down my spine. My body responds instantly, heat flooding my core despite my pregnancy, despite the court setting, despite everything but this moment of visceral connection.

Frost explodes from where our mouths join, spreading outward in violent bursts that coat the walls, the floor, the ceiling in crystalline patterns that pulse with our shared heartbeat. The little ones respond with synchronized movement inside me, their magic resonating with the Wild Magic swirling between us.

When we finally break apart, panting and bloodied, the throne room has transformed completely. The perfect ice architecture of Winter Court formality has given way to something ancient and primal—walls curved rather than angular, cillae forming constellations rather than geometric designs, the very foundation humming with power that responds to emotion rather than protocol.

I take Cadeyrn's hand—still faintly glowing with the residual magic of all four courts, still deadly with power that defies court limitations—and lace my fingers through his. Whatever comes next, we face it together. Not as Winter Prince and claimed omega, but as something fierce and new.

Something wild.

CHAPTER50

POV: Briar

Court gatherings makeme want to claw my own skin off. Even before I became a vessel for ancient magic with four lives quickening within me. Now, standing beside Cadeyrn in the Winter Court throne room, I'm fighting the urge to shatter something—or someone—just to end this parade of cold formality.

"The Summer Court has positioned three battalions along our southern border," drones a frost-patterned noble whose name I've already forgotten. His voice carries the practiced detachment of someone discussing weather patterns rather than impending slaughter. "Their emissaries claim it's merely a protective measure following recent... incidents."

Incidents. Such a bloodless word for Cadeyrn tearing Lord Frostbaine apart with magic that shouldn't exist in a single body. The immortal bastards have perfected the art of reducing brutality to polite terminology when faced with their own extinction.

Cadeyrn stands before the Winter Throne rather than sitting, his posture carrying centuries of command while rejecting its symbols. His body hasn't returned to its original form since our first claiming in the forest—when his rut transformed him into something new, something that makes these ancient nobles avoid direct eye contact.

"And the Spring Court?" he asks, cillae shifting beneath his skin like living constellations. Not pure winter geometry anymore—his markings blend all four seasons now. Delicate spring vines intertwined with summer's molten rivers, autumn's spiraling leaves all flowing through dominant winter stars. His transformation displayed whether they can stomach it or not.

Another noble steps forward, clad in ceremonial armor that's probably never tasted battle. "Elder Iris Bloom oversees their forces herself. They've brought specialized containment equipment—the type used for capturing rather than killing."

My hand moves to my swollen belly without thought, feeling the little ones shift in response to the spike of fear I can't quite suppress. Not fear for myself—I've faced death since the moment I swapped places with Willow. Fear for what grows inside me, what these predators want to cut out and examine like rare specimens.

"How thoughtful," I mutter. "They want to keep us as pets."

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