Page 150 of Run Little Omega

Whatever happens beyond this moment—war with the allied courts, the birthing of children who shouldn't exist, the transformation of an entire realm's magic—begins here, now, with fire and ice merging in the last place anyone would expect to find heat: the heart of the Winter Court itself.

CHAPTER51

POV: Briar

"I didn't thinkheat was possible during pregnancy," I manage, my voice rough and unfamiliar in my own ears. The words sound absurd the moment they leave my mouth—as if normal biological rules still apply to the vessel I'm becoming.

"It's not," he confirms, pupils blown so wide his eyes look like midnight pools. "This is Wild Magic completing your transformation. The final stage before the little ones arrive."

Of course. Always one more metamorphosis, one more shattering of what I believed possible. The universe hasn't finished its cosmic joke on the blacksmith's apprentice who just wanted to save her friend.

His hand cradles my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. When I instinctively bite, my new fangs pierce his skin. The scent of his blood—winter frost now laced with undertones of all four seasons—sends a hunger through me that has nothing to do with sustenance. Something primal awakens in my core, something that wants to tear and taste and claim.

"I need—" The words catch like metal shards in my throat. How do you articulate desire when your body is part human, part fae, and entirely impossible?

"I know what you need," he says, voice dropping to a register that reverberates through my bones like hammer strikes on anvil. "What we both need."

His lips find mine with a hunger that tastes of winter snow and ancient power. My newly pointed ears catalog sounds that never existed before—his quickened heartbeat, the subtle crystallization of frost where his emotions affect the air around us, the whispered currents of magic flowing through ancient stone. The palace itself seems to inhale, waiting.

When his tongue meets mine, I taste his essence in ways my human senses could never perceive. The metallic tang of blood where my fangs scratched him. The ancient magic in his transformed body, cold and sharp like the first breath on a winter morning. The rut building in response to my heat-scent, his control fracturing like ice in spring thaw.

Seven centuries of perfect restraint crumbling against the need to claim me here, now, in the heart of everything he once represented.

His hands find the elaborate court garments they've dressed me in, tearing the fabric rather than bothering with clasps and ties. I should care about destroying something that probably cost more than my entire village, but all I can focus on is the desperate need to feel his skin against mine, to complete this final transformation under my alpha's touch.

My alpha. The thought no longer makes me want to spit. We've moved beyond the simplistic dynamics of claimed and claimer into something more intricate—each transformed by the other, each drawing power from the connection between us. A closed circuit of shared magic that grows stronger with each shattered boundary.

As the last of the formal court garments falls away, leaving me naked except for the cillae covering my skin like living runes, Cadeyrn lifts me with otherworldly strength. My swollen belly and newly heated skin don't deter him, his transformed body more than capable of supporting my weight. Not so long ago, being carried like this would have made me fight like a cornered animal. Now it feels like completion.

"Where are we going?" I ask, breathless as another wave of heat surges through me, making my skin luminous with need.

His answering smile is pure predator, fangs gleaming like polished daggers. "Somewhere fitting for what we're about to do."

He carries me across the throne room toward the Winter Throne itself. The ancient seat of power sits on a raised dais, carved from a single massive piece of ice that never melts, its surface etched with the history of the court in elaborate cillae. Seven centuries of Winter Court power condensed into one symbolic object.

"Cadeyrn," I say, sudden understanding making me laugh despite the desperate need flooding my system. "Are you seriously going to?—"

"Claim my mate on the Winter Throne?" he finishes, midnight mischief dancing in his eyes as he ascends the dais steps. "The throne that represents seven centuries of the very control and tradition we're breaking? Yes, Briar. That's exactly what I'm going to do."

Something wild and reckless surges through me at the thought—the village omega being claimed on the sacred seat that has known only the most powerful Winter Court rulers. The ultimate desecration of everything that once oppressed me and my kind.

He places me on the throne, the ancient ice surprisingly responsive to my overheated skin—neither painfully cold nor melting beneath my touch. The seat that has known only Winter Court rulers adapts to my transformed body, welcoming rather than rejecting. As if it recognizes something in me more ancient than court protocol, more legitimate than bloodline purity.

"I want to honor you first," he says, kneeling before the throne with reverence that borders on sacrilege. "The true power in this room."

The Winter Prince kneeling before a village blacksmith's apprentice. If Fergus could see me now, he'd laugh himself into an early grave—right after he tried to gut Cadeyrn with an iron poker.

Before I can respond, he guides my legs apart, spreading them wide across the arms of the throne. The position should make me feel vulnerable, but instead I feel powerful—a queen receiving tribute from a conquered kingdom. The sensations of my transformed body, heightened by the magical heat coursing through me, make even the cool air against my exposed flesh feel like a physical caress.

His mouth finds my pussy with practiced precision. The contrast between my fire-hot core and his winter-cool tongue creates a sensation so intense I cry out, hands gripping the ancient armrests. Frost patterns flare beneath my fingertips, responding to the surge of pleasure.

"Gods, you're burning," he murmurs against my folds, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the building pleasure. "Like summer captured in winter ice. So fucking wet for me already."

I want to form a clever response, something wry about forges and blacksmiths knowing heat, but his tongue finds the exact spot that makes coherent thought impossible. All I can do is arch against him, head falling back against the throne as waves of magic pulse through me in time with his movements.

"Yes," I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair, pressing him harder against me. "Right there—don't stop?—"

The throne itself begins to respond, ancient ice warming beneath me, cillae shifting to match those covering my skin. With each wave of pleasure, new patterns emerge—not just winter's geometric precision but spring's spiraling tendrils, summer's molten rivers, autumn's organic curves. The magic responds to our joining, to the unification of what the courts have kept separate for millennia.

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